Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Fancier boi.

I'll always be over-caffeinated and underfed, but starting today you can read me over at my sparkly new site: jjwienkers.com!

You're welcome.

Monday, August 23, 2010

You know how everyone else knows I'm gay, now? 1:4

I wear cologne to play organized sports.

Even when they take place outdoors and the scent of sunscreen will most certainly overpower that which is manufactured by Gucci or my own sweat glands.

A boi'z gotta do what he can if he wants to Capture more than just the Flag.

Friday, August 20, 2010


Well, not quite yet; but in anticipation of the 62nd Primetime Emmy Awards, next Sunday, my friend and filmmaker Cameron Ca$h asked me to write up a post concerning my appreciation for Fox's raging success, "Glee."

Although the musical dramedy has garnered 19 nominations - more than any other show this year - Cameron was among the ranks of those who saw such high regard to be excessive and undeserved. I did my best to convince him otherwise.

Click on over to his blog, C-Squared Forever, to read my piece and find out whether or not he's still spitting dissent or singing praise.

And if you're not already a fan yourself, perhaps I shall convert you as well. If not, please don't hold it against me. You may, however, throw a Slurpee in my face.

Just make it grape and let me know when it's coming, so I can open my mouth.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Careful, cowboy.

Desperate and painfully lovelorn singles aside, excessively flirting with someone in an attempt to gain the attention of their friend never works.

Jealousy and competition do NOT inspire lust within the self-actualized person.

It is enjoyable, though, watching the realization flash behind an arrogant cocksman's eyes the moment after he shoots himself in the member.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Ready yo' rods.

When I'm in it deep, you can dangle your worm just out of my reach for months and still - I'll gladly bite.

Just know, though: you're free to take a pause, wipe your brow, and even fuck someone else; but if you get cocky or overwhelmed and let the line spool back out, chances are high that I'll snap free and my affection will drift away forever.

Promiscuous though I may appear to be, I don't love for sport. This heart ain't for amateurs. If you can remember that, then come on, boiz -

Hook me.

Monday, August 16, 2010

You know how everyone else knows I'm gay, now? 1:3

On my family vacation in WIsconsin, last week, I took both my credit and debit cards and all of the cash I had previously withdrawn. Every - spare - coin. My V.I.P card for the Factory, West Hollywood's hottest Friday night dance spot, however...

THAT I left behind in the safety of my quadruple locked bungalow.

Had I lost my wallet, I wouldn't have been able to gas up my car or put food in my mouth, this week, much less pay to check my bag on the flight home, yesterday. Come the weekend, though, I'd have no trouble securing free access to all the Lady GaGa, B.o.B, and Beyonce a boi could ever hope for. I'll bet I could even caress a few biceps and flirt my way to inebriation, too.

"...You really need to rethink your priorities," I can imagine my mother saying after a long pause.

Don't tell her, but in this instance:

She would be right.

Operation Don't Fuck It Up.

"What should his code name be?" My friend Liana asked as we speed walked to dodgeball a couple Tuesdays ago.

“Nothing! I love his name!” I gushed. “I want to say it all the time!”

“Maybe not in West Hollywood, though,” she suggested. “What if someone overhears?”

“Let 'em!” I continued, manically. “It'll all be good. I'm not going to say anything TOO crazy.”

"Yeah...” Her tone didn’t match the consensus usually implied by the word.

"Do you think I'm already getting too crazy?!" I gasped.

"Not yet," she smiled, "but it's just that everyone's red alert button is at a different sensitivity level and you never know what might scare someone else off."

"Hmm...Fair point,” I acquiesced. “I’ve never met another gay man with his same name. What should we call him, then?"

Dishes! We both concluded at once.

Inarguably, linking this piece to the stream of other, thinly veiled references to this particular crush negates the stealth method of classification Liana hath suggested. Especially as his commenting, “What a fortunate homeless man,” beneath my Facebook post directing friends to the first instance made it quite clear that he knows I am writing about him. However, Dishes has already disregarded my affections. Thus, while unfortunate, exposing his alias is no longer kamikaze in nature.

And at least it was through a face-to-face interaction that our potential pairing was botched. Operation Be Bold And Follow His Text Cues And Him To MJ’s In Silver Lake After He Left The Eagle Without Saying Goodbye Even Though We Had Made It Known To One Another Earlier In The Week That We Would Both Start Our Nights There And Most Likely Finish It And Each Other Off At My New Bungalow – to be as transparent as the Obama administration once promised. Although expertly strategized, his friends’ churlish reaction of, “SERIOUSLY?!” when aghast upon witnessing the completion of my mission confirmed the need to abort any plans for continued pursuit.

Apparently they saw me as more of a STALKER than a romantic warrior. But again, rather that I watched myself shoot myself in the heart than to have had an acquaintance of his do it for me by relaying that a fit, shaggy haired white boy with a propensity for self-made sleeveless attire had been overheard publicly rhapsodizing about falling in love with him after just one date. In that sense: I consider Operation Don’t Fuck It Up to have been a success.

Now on to the next target!

Sunday, August 15, 2010

You know how everyone else knew I was gay? 1:8

Whenever I take a trip back to Wisconsin, we Wienkers always make sure to find the time to sit down together and at least skim through a few of the more hilarious home movies in our family archives. One of our collective favorites features a particularly prophetic scene the night my younger sister, Mary, turned four:

“Geez, you guys don’t give me nearly this much for my birthday,” I lamented as she began to tear through a heaping pile of presents.

“Mmmhmm. You get nothing,” my mom replied, revealing the origin of both my sarcastic disposition and penchant for onomatopoeia.

“What movie is it? ‘Barbie’? Ew. If it’s BOY’S stuff,” I spoke of the gifts yet to be unwrapped, “I want it.”

While we have watched and immediately re-watched that particular bit numerous times in the past, it is the irony of the last statement - more than the signs of a spoiled first born apparent in the opening line - that has elicited the hardiest guffaws since I came out to my family.

Five or six years away from puberty at the time of filming, it’s not surprising that my declaration appears authentically adamant. Still, while I had not yet become conscious of my sexual proclivity, my parents couldn’t have held onto that masculine moment for long. Certainly not once I began plopping down beside my sisters for each viewing of the newly acquired, female oriented flick.

The exact number of times we slid that VHS from its glittering case and into the VCR, I cannot say. It was enough, however, that I will never forget the basic storyline: two irrepressibly spunky teenage girls – one Japanese, one a blonde Scandinavian – gallivant around Epcot in Orlando, Florida, sending Barbie birthday wishes from around the “world.”

Obviously, the hostesses were cute, but it wasn’t their looks by which I was most thrilled. Not – at – all. Like my younger sisters, I was more envious than desirous. And it wasn’t even their faux global adventure that inspired our longing, so much as the neon pink and surprisingly compact cell phones through which they communicated whenever they would zip off in their own personal golf karts to record lone segments in separate sections of the theme park.

“You probably did want that movie,” my mom finally mused after we played the clip of my sister’s fourth birthday again, Wednesday night.


It may have took her sixteen years to come to that conclusion, but the important thing is that neither she nor my father ever expressed disapproval of my joining my sisters each time they hit play. In or out of the closet, they’ve never really been anything but supportive. The fact that I can rattle off the synopsis of what was, essentially, a low budget, straight-to-video, Disney marketing campaign when I can’t remember a single formula from Geometry or Advanced Algebra, however –

That would certainly evoke a sigh of disappointment from the both of them.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Share the effort.

"Should I message him? No! I shouldn't. Should I? Ugh, I dropped my head into my hands, last Monday, as I waited for my friend Liana’s advice on how to move forward after a weekend of particularly lackluster textual responses from one of my latest crushes.

"It is so weird to see you falter," she shook her head in dismay. "You never falter."

"It's just with men. I hate it. IFUCKINGHATEIT!...No, I love it. Oh Gawd," I began to cackle deliriously. AHHH! Wha’doIdo?”

"Let him come to you," she chuckled. "It's like when I was a kid and my mom told me to do the dishes just as I was about to do them. I’d already planned on it, but then I would get annoyed that she hadn't given me a chance and I would no longer want to do them."

"Hmm...” I frowned. “Well, I never want to do any kind of housework, but I guess I see your point."

"I think the safest and most growing experience for you right now is to allow him the capacity to do them on his own," Liana continued in her role as Grasshoppah. "Doing them for him or reminding him to do them is just going to set up your entire relationship on a foundation where he's not learning and not allowed to grow himself."

As usual, she’s right. Love should never be a chore, but it does take work – on both ends. If I, if any man or woman should ever want to get to a point where we share more than a sexual connection with another person, then we need to learn to be patient and strive for balance.

When applied, this realization is extraordinarily freeing. In worrying less about the degree to which those with whom we are smitten return the favor, we are allowed to take more time to remember what we like about ourselves. So long as this increased self-awareness promotes confidence, not arrogance, it will only serve to further draw in those we desire.

Plus, you know, when we put a personal limit on the number of hours spent cycling through each and EVERY one of their Facebook photo albums, we might finally find some time to do the actual dishes.

Monday, August 9, 2010


"This feels so strange, just going to chill at a friend's house instead of out to the bar," I told my mom, on the phone last night. "I don't even know who I am right now!"

"It is Sunday," she replied.

"Woman, this is LA,"
I reminded her. "Every night is Friday night."

"Uh -" I could hear her open and close her mouth as she searched - in vain - for a response, once again rendered speechless by the knowledge of her baby boi regularly running rampant 2,000 miles away.

If she knew a sixth of it...

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Gay forward.

"Any boi drama?" I asked my friend, yesterday morning, inquiring as to the events following my departure from the bar Friday night.

"No...Although, this one guy wanted to have sex. He was all, 'Yo boy, group fuck?'"

"That's what he opened with?!" Even I was surprised by such aggressive tactics.

"'How many boys you bringing home with you?'" My friend said the cock juggler continued.

"Zero," was his own response.

"Oh man. How romantic," I laughed.

"Yeah," he concurred. "You had me at 'group fuck.'"

Saturday, August 7, 2010

You know how everyone else knows that I'm gay now? 1:3

"I think I made out with that guy in your photo," I wrote in a Facebook message to my friend, a couple weeks ago. "Does his name start with a 'd'? HA! 'Does his name start with a 'd'?'"

Eesh, I tugged at my collar, grimacing exaggeratedly to myself.

"You know you're gay when..."

"Haha! Yes," he confirmed, quickly. "That's my friend Doug. And you did indeed make out with him a few months back. :)"

Douuug - I nodded at my computer screen. Okay. That's right. Oops!

What can I say? This is Los Angeles. I meet a lot of people. I can't be expected to remember everyone.

Even if we did taste the inside of each other's mouths.

Friday, August 6, 2010

Unsoliciters welcome.

"You're sure about these?" I placed the pair of electric red hot pants that I had just spent the last 20 minutes trying on and asking the opinion of both salesboiz at the West Hollywood American Apparel.

“Oh YES. They are hahhht,one of the clerks confirmed, folding them as best one can fold such little material.

"Alllllriiight; because I've never owned shorts this short and I'm rollin' up to the bar alone and -"

"If you don't get laid in these, tonight,” he interrupted, “come back and I'll return them for you myself."

"I wasn't gonna say anything," another patron – who had happened to walk in on me in the dressing room – chimed in, "but you got a great ass."

"Uh! I gasped. "THANK you!”

"Yeah,” he nodded. “You're THICK for a white boy."

"Mmmhmm," I slapped my own booty. What – a way to start my weekend."

Not to mention my new life, living in West Hollywood. Six days into my residency and already there are gay people and compliments comin’ at me from every direction – whether I specifically invite them or not.

Um...I can get used to this.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

That's...Not a compliment. 1:2

“You’re way more muscular than any other girl I’ve been with,” my friend’s boyfriend told her when they were first dating.

While that line is sure to get any moderately promiscuous and fitness-minded gay boi into bed, few women – aside from bodybuilders or Jillian Michaels – are bound to receive that gladly. Regardless of your intentions, most will hear “muscular” and read “fat.”

But, duh. Even those of us men interested in other men know weight is NEVER a topic about which one should be flippant around females.

So, come on, heterosexual counterparts; archeologists estimate that modern humans have been on the Earth for almost 200,000 years – get with it, already.

Monday, August 2, 2010


Taking me on a date? Bring chips if you want to sleep over. Tortilla chips. With a hint of lime. And still -

No promises that I won't ask you to leave so I can lay in bed alone and eat them myself.

Chips and flowers, however...

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Verbal abuse.

The problem with talking ALL the damn time, is that every once in a while you get stuck on a specific filler word. Currently, "Riiight?!" is my automatic response to, well, just about everything.

I am trying to minimize my usage by making a concentrated effort to simply nod when I have nothing more than consent to offer. It's a start. And at least it's not, "Totally," that I've been abusing.


Friday, July 30, 2010


Living and lusting amongst the second highest LGBT population in America, determining which of my fellow Los Angelenos on whom I am crushing most can be as hard as an erect cock.

However, my social circles are overlapping at an increasingly velocious rate and clusters of loyalty are beginning to arise. Thus, in order to move forward and explore any mutual infatuation, it appears as though some definitive choices will need to be made. But how am I to choose just one boi from each of these various peripheral friend groups? How will I know I’m making the right choice? How does anyone ever know?

It's easy, actually. As easy as I surely seem. All I, nay, all everyone in this predickament need do, is close our eyes, rub our stuff, and uhhh - we've got an answer.

The first person who comes to mind whilst masturbating: That's where our truest attention lies.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Butt, duh.

A proficient gambler, my friend Josh is always looking to raise the stakes. So naturally, at the bar after dodgeball last Wednesday, he suggested spankings as an added incentive - along with mass drunkenness - to winning each round of flip cup.

Yes, spankings. And not just the standard hand-to-ass slap one might normally see exchanged between athletes. Not even close.

While we all enjoy the post game beer binges as much as the sport that brings us together, we dodgeballers are a horde of aggressively competitive and borderline sexually deviant freaks. Thus, each time victory was secured, the losing side would bend over as the winners picked up the collection of metal spatulas that Happy Endings normally allocates for the safe and easy distribution of their discounted pizza and pitcher combo.

Squeals, squeaks, and yelps mingled with the unforgiving SMACK of stainless steel against thinly veiled flesh. Yet, I myself did not contribute to the cacophony. I didn't even flinch.

"I'm sorry?" I glanced back over my shoulder, grinning devilishly, "Was that supposed to be painful?"

No one was really surprised. It doesn't take more than one glance to infer that this pert 'n' plump ass o' mine can handle some heat. Although, let me be clear, boiz: S&M is NOT a fetish to which I subscribe. About an unnamed friend of mine, however, the same cannot be said.

Boy? Girl? I won't spill. But they were also present. And had anyone been playing close enough attention, the soundless smirk that tugged at their lips as paddle met cheek would have come as a shock.

Just goes to show, that it really is the quiet ones with the riding crops under their beds.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Hold it if you can.

Desperation yields only sex. Sex or permission to use a public restroom normally reserved for paying customers. Occasionally it might prompt an exhibitionistic combination of the two, but never anything of real substance.

No, no. Nature calls, love just shows up when you least expect it.

Monday, July 26, 2010

PG-I'm not 13 anymore.

When I was on the school basketball team in 8th grade, we were all mortified to wear the mandated short shorts that were part of our decades old uniform. Most of us spent more time tugging awkwardly at the hem than we did paying attention to anything else that was happening on the court. Nowagays, however, I would KILL - or at least maim another queen - for those radically retro polyester hot pants.

Such crimes of fassion might be an exaggeration. But like many a homosexual, I leap at any chance I get to flaunt the gams and glutes I weight train so hard to maintain. Thus, in the anticipation of attending my first big gay pool party next weekend, I treated myself to a new, West Hollywood worthy (read: NC-17) swimsuit.

A far cry of "Heeey girl!" from the board shorts I brought with me when I moved to Los Angeles from the Midwest, two years ago.

Unfortunately, I will once again have to drown my sensuality in that excess of water-repellent fabric when I head home to my family's lakeside compound later this summer. They all love me and support my lifestyle; but regardless of sexual orientation, most anyone is sure to balk at the omnipresent sight of their kin's bubble butt cheeks, the bottoms of mine which can NOT be contained by my recently acquired second skin.

Well, I guess it could. But only at the expense of exposing my crack. And that - would just be plain distasteful.

Saturday, July 24, 2010


If you go down on someone in their car and a homeless man is asleep in the abandoned armchair you parked next to, does that count as exhibitionism or a complete disregard of Los Angeles’ displaced population?


Seeing as he had woken up and wandered off by the time we put our seats back in their upright and locked positions - Imma gonna say both. And, uh, maybe a smidge of indecent exposure, too; because he surely got a glimpse. Although, lemme tell yah:

It is more than decent, what was exposed to me.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Damn it feels good to have been a loser.

"In adulthood, Mary," I recently dolled out wisdom to my 19-year-old sister, "nerds make the best people.


"A nerd, not a dork. Dorks are awkward. Nerds are quirky!"

"I am NOT a nerd."



She'll come around. Eventually she'll realize she is a nerd. A nerd in the popular crowd's clothing. Not to mention, that on top of being wildly successful, well-rounded, and both mentally and sexually stimulating people - most of us former outcasts tend to grow into and develop a better style, anyway.

Cool is relative. Good company is not. And in the end, in every sense, it's win - win for the losers.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

You know how everyone else knew I was gay? 1:7

I had a variety of Sarah Jessica Parker's 2005 Gap ads up on the wall of my dorm room, freshmen AND sophomore year of college.

"I got to thinking..."
Maybe jerking off to all of this gay porn actually means something.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Rapid results.

"What are you doing tonight?" My friend Liana asked as we left work, yesterday.

"Oh - nothing, really. Going to the gym. Writing. Washing the dishes, probably...Not."

"You should go out and do something. Your hair looks great."

"Uh! Thank you." I tittered in delight. "I am stopping at the clinic for a free STD screening on my way home. That's not too bad of a place to meet men."

In fact, now thanks to rapid testing, it's actually pretty smart. No need for prospective partners to worry whether not you're actually negative when there's an office full of healthcare professionals who can vouch for you. Alas, while I'm still clean, there was no one else there with whom I would want to get dirty.

The nurse did say I have, "great veins," though. "But I bet you get that every time anyone draws blood."

"True," I affirmed, "But I'll always take a compliment!"

And while a phone number would have been nice, after two instances of unsolicited flattery in just as many hours - I was content to go home, read a magazine, and think about cleaning my kitchen.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Peanut Bitter.

I'm only eating you from the jar because I don't feel as though the bread is worth the extra grams of sugar.

What? LAZY?! Who the fuck are you to -

Don't tell me to calm down! Over three million Americans can hardly be in the same room as you, lest their throats close up. You should just be glad I'm consuming you at all.

Oh. OH! Nowww you're sorry. Well, TOO LATE. Back in the fridge you go.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

You know how everyone else knows I'm gay, now? 1:2

I'm still at the gym 30 minutes before I need to leave for a party on a Saturday night. Damn us gays and our high expectations for one another's fitness. It might amp up our sex lives, but it really cuts into our public debauchery.

At least we're more likely to live longer, healthier lives. I guess we can be thankful for that. And maybe our people will become less judgmental the closer we get to being able to retire to a life of leisure in Palm Springs.

Although, for many - that maybe is likely to be as thin as the head to toe linen in which we are all sure to bedizen ourselves.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Mind stalker.

It has been said that when the thought of someone suddenly enters your brain, they too are thinking of you. If that's the case, then - scant virtual interactions aside - there is NO way that the boiz upon whom I am crushing most are unaware of my affections.

I just hope they're not tearing at their temples and screaming, "GET OUT OF MY HEADDD," because I am in there morning, noon, and night.


Maybe the asylum will allow conjugal visits. Although, if it's me who put them there...

I'm guessing that they won't want me to put it anywhere.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Understandably so WHAT.

We all have some baggage. Over time, a small carry on and even a side satchel of slight emotional scarring are to be expected. But we only have one life. One ride. And there's no telling how long the trip is going to be.

In terms of relationships, that is reason enough to pack lightly.

So go on. Let go. Drop those extra canvas cases of drama and WALK AWAY!

No one is going to tackle you for making this choice. Unless it's a chance at love with me that you're headed towards. In that case, I'll don a Homoland Security uniform and cuff you like they would at LA - triple X.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

That's...Not a compliment. 1:1

"You have a lady butt," a college friend once told me.


I don't think that's the response she deserved; but if a man butt is a flat butt, I'll take a feminine heinie any day.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

No shame after Pride.

"I met you before," more than a few people have said this month, their eyes falling in mild irritation. "Twice."

"What?!" I always laugh. "I'm sorry. Where?"

"Pride?" They cling to the uptalk and the last hope that I might actually remember them.

"Ohhh - well there you go. You can't begrudge me THAT. I was drunk for three straight days."

That excuse has appeased most of them. As for the rest, well, whatever. I forgot them for a third time when their frown failed to flip the fuck back around.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

You made your bed, now fuck yourself in it.

There’s angry sex. There’s make up sex. And on the way from one polarized, but equally passionate point to the next is the less enjoyable, unavoidable, “There’s no way in HELL I’m going to have sex with you.”

My friend Mariah was in this horizontal mamboless limbo, last week. “Handle it yourself,” she denied her unfoundedly cranky boyfriend. “You’re pissin’ me off.”

Although I’ve not yet been in a relationship, her reticence is understandable. Snap at me, and you’d better not think about touching my arm – much less an erogenous zone. Not without a few hours of space and an artless apology.

Un – UH, boiz. Trust.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Who ordered the JJ?

Provided with free and relatively palatable coffee, as we are at my office, there’s never a legitimate need to walk to Starbucks and spend my own money during the work day. Yet, every other week or so I feel something pulling me in the direction of the nearest franchise. Something even stronger than my debilitating caffeine dependency:


Despite the throngs of people swarming both our courtyard and the slew of food trucks lined up out front of our building, I experience the occasional urge to place myself amongst a different crowd. A cross section of people whose paths I would not cross if I were to simply plunk down in the shade of our decorative waterfall and read my book. Yesterday afternoon I not only felt this pull, but a push, as well.

“Today,” my horoscope began, “you are wonderfully optimistic about matters of the heart, dear Justin! Lifted by the auspicious influence of the Sun and the Chariot, you’re making big steps forward in your romantic quest. If you’re single, you may find your soul mate today, and if you’re a couple you will re-discover your intimacy. Everything that has to do with love and emotions is under a benign influence today. So seize the opportunity – be passionate!”

Not one to ignore the Universe – or MSN astrologists – I took a late lunch and set off toward the green awnings, nearly giddy in anticipation of an iced coffee and, perhaps, a side of true love.

Is it you, Rivers Cuomo 2.0mo? I scanned the rocker’s doppelganger as I let him step ahead of me in line while I sipped on a sample. I like your glasses. You’ve got great hair. Ohhh – old hands. Hmm…Okay. You’re still really cute.

What about you, sexy Persian? A swarthy college-aged boy stepped up to the counter as I moved over to wait for my drink. That Abercrombie & Fitch emblem could say gay, not just poor taste. But you didn’t check out my ass.

Shoot. You’d notice. Even if you weren’t interested, you’d notice my ass.

You can’t ignore that which is there
Even if you have no sense of smell
you still breathe air.

God DAMMIT, soul mate. I just wrote a fucking poem. Right here in line. Jesus. Snap me UP already.

“Keep on rockin’ the mustache,”
Rivers Redux interrupted my train wreck of thought as he walked past.

“OH!” I began to laugh, taken off guard. “Thank you!”

“I don’t know the coffee shop etiquette,” he engaged a young blonde woman at a nearby table. “Can I sit here?”

I frowned.

“Muchos gracias,” he pulled out a chair.

Ooo – no, don't. Don’t pull out the Spanish pleasantries. Meh. Whatever. You can have him, girl.

“I’m learning,” he smiled, winsomely.

Awww...That is cute, actually. Corny, but cute. FUCKYOUGIRL!

Well, maybe he’s a Taurus, too. Alright. You go boy. Meet your girl. Someone might as well find their soul mate today; because it ain’t lookin’ like it’s gonna be me.

It wasn’t.

Not during the 28 minutes I sat outside the coffee shop. Nor the two hours I spent at the gym later that night. Perhaps I should have gone to the grocery store like I planned, but by then my failing deodorant was bound to overpower fate, anyway.

And my horoscope wasn’t completely wrong. I am still “wonderfully optimistic about matters of the heart.” No amount of false promise or unfulfilled fortunes will ever squelch that enthusiasm.

Especially not on two cups a day.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Beers to that.

In the future, I'm sure to look back on the summer of 2010 as the one season during which I made up for all the day drinking I missed while working weekends throughout my final two YEARS of college.


Monday, July 5, 2010

I want fireworks.

But sparklers will do. For now. So, boi(z), ditch your fear, grab your matches, and I just might consider sharing my chips.

Sunday, July 4, 2010

(No longer) bored on the Fourth of July.

When I was a kid, I couldn't wait until my friends and I were old enough to host our own Fourth of July BBQ where, away from prying, parental eyes, we could drink alcohol and eat chips all day and into the fireworks lit night.

Although I've been able to get my hands on booze (legally or otherwise) for the past six years now, grilles are harder to come by. Thus, today is the first time my childhood daydream will be realized. And while no one who I then imagined would be in attendance also lives in LA, another friendly fixture of that time period, aunt Zelda on "Sabrina, the Teenage Witch," will.

OBAMA, I love this town! And country.

Saturday, July 3, 2010

You know how everyone else knows I'm gay, now? 1:1

Why shower it off? I was going to get sweaty anyways. Just a shame it was via a less intimate Downward-Facing Dog than I'd hoped to be doing the morning after hitting West Hollywood's favored Friday night dance event.

Friday, July 2, 2010

Not the one he was hoping for.

When we're out at a club, few in mah crew are apt to tell a man to,
"Step back you're dancing kinda close
I feel a little poke coming through
On you."
Last night, however, my friend Carlo wasn't quite as polite or articulate. His shriek was justifiable, though. I did poke him in the eye.

Readily raring.

Uhhh - NO going out for me tonight, I thought upon struggling to get out of bed after only three hours of sleep, this morning.


Let me think about it. Un - un - un - un - un - UN. Un - un - unnn,
I sung silently, dancing from the bathroom to the kitchen, just five minutes later.

I don't know who I thought I was kidding.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Must(ache) I shave?

My mom thinks so. Ande, my fellow B!tchling on E! Online's Answer Bitch podcast where I co-co-host every Tuesday, says I "look like a chick with facial hair." But Leslie, our leader, is a fan. As are a smattering of other friends and family. And regardless -

If you ain't in line for a ride, I don't really care.

Even then, don't knock it till yah try to straddle it. This 70s porn star look i'n't just for show. I don't (usually) accept money, but I can put a whole lot where my mouth is.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

It's easy when I'm not.

When meeting and mingling with new people, few are bound to snub an extended hand and a smiling, "Hi! I'm JJ." But tack on a "Wanna fuck?" - or even a more tasteful, but equally intentional request - and you'd be surprised how many balk at the offer. Gay men included.

I've decided to reign in that (s)excessively aggressive aspect of my social approach as we begin the second season of the West Hollywood Dodgeball league. For several, nay, a few, alright, a couple, okay, OKAY - the first official week.


Tuesday, June 29, 2010

S&M & I.

"That was fucking AWESOME!" I bellowed after my first paintball experience, Sunday. "Buuut - I'm in no rush to pay $50 for an almost equivocal number of welts, again. Not anytime soon."

Only two days later, however, my bruises haven't even begun to fade, and already I'm realizing that I need to return to the course and solidify my reputation as a bad ass - not just a pretty boy with a great ass - if I hope to nail any of those boiz off of the field, too.

Alright. I can handle that. And it was quite a rush.

Plus, if I thought throwing a dodgeball at any he who dares to turn down me was an invigorating and primal outlet, put a gun in my hand.

APAINTBALLGUN! Just a paintball gun. Honest. No need to retreat.

Only back that thang up.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Marked man.

Check out this hickey.

Juuust kidding. It's from a paintball, not a boi'z mouth. Like I would ever be THAT obvious.

REM - that's a band, right?

I don't really sleep, so much as rest - occasionally. Some science might say that this could lead to an earlier incineration at the crematorium; but I won't mind. Not so long as it doesn't infringe on my fun or prematurely age my frame and face in the process.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Threesome - thing like that.

If you get naked and fall into bed with two other people, but don't have sex - does that still count as a threesome?


Saturday, June 26, 2010

I dance like a stripper.

Perhaps that's why everyboidy tends to look more than touch. It's okay gentleman, I'm only a patron of these clubs. I want your dick, not your dollars.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Ain't (tat)too bad I didn't do that.

Back in college, I had the bongrilliant idea to ink the title of the 1940s jazz standard, "I got it bad and that ain't good," on my inner thigh.

Then I woke up - amongst a fall out of cheese puff powder - and recognized the slew of incurable STDs that particular strain of lyrics might imply. Thankfully so, because no matter how good a(n un)certain number of Los Angelenos can attest me to be, there ain't many anywhere who would still want it bad after unveiling such a flagrant forewarner. At least not without proof of recently and officially documented sexual health.

A jungle cat it is, then. An ode to my carnal ferocity AND a nod towards my fascination with magnetic and libidinous, middle aged women. All tat jazz...

None of the eluded secretions.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Ass your age.

If your punch line falls flat because no one around is old enough to get it, the sound you should be making is WOOSH! as you head out the door.

MEN who can rent cars in all 50 states should not date boiz who can't yet legally drink. There are 25-or-so-year-old sexual deviants with pierced tongues, too. And if anyone who was first able to vote (Kerry) when Bush ran for his second Presidential term is really too old for your licking, then stick to the malleable twinks you could find in a bar, at least.


Tuesday, June 22, 2010

I'm not sorry, did I offend you?

It is my philosophy that when people let you in on their interpersonal drama, they are also granting you permission to offer your opinions on the situation. All those close to me subscribe to this same point of view. Practical strangers, however, don't take as kindly to my candor.

"That's AWFUL," I interjected as a sparkly T-shirt wearing boi - the lover of my friend Rina's friend, Prisstopher - finished telling us of his open relationship with another man. Another man who happened to be out on the patio of that very same bar. Another man to whom he had just introduced Prisstopher as the other man.

"Noitisn't!" Tommy Sparkles bristled. "He's okay with it. He's ready to settle down and I'm not. He knows I love him, but I can't be with just him, just yet."

"Still - that's got to kill, I pounded my fist against my left pec, "him, seeing you with your other lover like that. That would kill anyone."

T. Spark glanced away towards the jukebox, looking like he smelled something as disgusting as I thought his actions to be.

"How was that for you," I challenged Prisstopher, "running into his boyyy - friennnd?"

"Awkward," he scrunched up his face, sourly. More in response to my lack of boundaries than his lover’s lover’s sanctioned reprieve.

I turned to Rina, rolled my eyes, and - due to the deluge of liquor I consumed that night – ceased in being capable of recalling any more of the conversation.

The next thing I do remember is Tommy Sparkles' greeting of, “Heeey. It’s that guy that thinks I’m awful,” when we ran into him again an hour or so later.

“I didn’t say you were awful,” I corrected him. “I said the situation is awful.”

And whether or not my $0.73 was warranted, (Betch, please. My insight is worth far more than a couple of pennies.) I’m right.

Fortunately for Sparkles, comma, T. and his actual man, they're likely to move past this HEccup. It’s Prisstopher about whom we should be most concerned.

Having just recently come out at 24 - he’s a white male from Orange County - Tommy Sparkles is the first boi with whom Priss has ever shared a KISS - much less plans to do anything below the belt. One could argue that this freshness makes him ripe for all that commitment free activity that Sparkles has in mind; but I disagree.

Although predominantly hypersexual, gay men are still susceptible to emotional erosion. And despite his attitude – which, I admit, was somewhat called for – Prisstopher's psyche is also hyper-delicate. There is a chance that Tommy Sparkles will do nothing more than teach him a good dick trick or two; but in casually breaking in one hole, T. Spark is almost sure to tear another in the hearts of both of his lovers.

Take my word, y’all. But just know – for once, I hope I’m wrong.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Three and a half hours in purgatory.

I am always up for a costume party. On my calendar, Halloween is just the kick off to another 365 days ripe to be themed. That extolled, it wasn't the suggested attire, so much as the promise of a designated seven minutes in heaven room, that had me most revved up for the 1980s junior high re-enactment dance at Freak City, in Hollywood, Saturday night.

"I don't care if there are only three other gay men here to choose from -" I proclaimed upon strutting into the venue around 11 p.m., before I'd even drank my first glass of spiked, fruit punch. "I WILL be taking someone behind that curtain to make out."

I didn't.

We danced until almost 2:30 a.m., and throughout that whole time I don't remember seeing ONE other gay man in attendance.

Not. A single. One.

No definitive homosexuals, at least. I might have been able to coax a celestial minute or two out of the more libidinous and blacked out straight guys. And I'm sure I could have gotten even drunker, myself, and charmed (read: browbeaten) a female friend into giving me a few pity pecs. But we were only pretending to be back in eighth grade.

While it's unfortunate that I wasn't mature enough to experiment then, no one with less than equal skills of seduction or pride in their identity - not to mention a vagina - is going to get their hands beneath this authentic, 1984, Christine McVie solo tour T, now.

The mullet wig, though. Anyone's free to run their fingers through that.

Saturday, June 19, 2010


Last night, my friends Alexis and Raina expressed the theory that there are two kinds of people: dogs and cats. And not that we all have a preference between the apples and oranges of domesticated animals, but that we actually exhibit the personalities of either species of house pet, ourselves. This morning, another friend Tweeted evidence that further proves their point.

Loosely, cats are tactile with their affection, but tend to remain quiet until the need to meow up - sometimes literally - arises. When it does, however, expect claws. Kitties, like Alexis and Stacy, will scratch your eyes out and slash your furniture with a butcher knife if you push them to it.

Dogs are consistently louder and borderline superfluous with their expressions of love and hate. They're always ready to yip and pant, and bark, growl, or snaRRRl when need be - which is often for such excitable creatures as Raina and myself. This reactionary facet extends into the sexual realm, as well.

Whereas a cat will make their affection known through a subtle, yet suggestive brushing past your legs, we dogs will thrust right up on yah. Well - I suppose I shouldn't speak for Rai. But y'all know I wouldn't rule out dry humping as a means of making my intentions known.

Not after lapping up a vodka soda or three.

Friday, June 18, 2010

Freudian cock block.

In life and in lust, especially, we all have moments where we fear that we've said too much. That we've skurred back those objects of infatuation whom we have been gently prodding forward, away from mere flirting and nearer to engaging in that more productive exchange which some are brazen enough to call a date. Sometimes it's not even the actual words we use, but the implication behind them. Sometimes they aren't even our words, but those of the artists whose (dance) remixed song we posted on said crush's Facebook wall.

"With hearts on fire, I reach out to you tonight."

They repeat that aggressive string of lyrics 16 times. SIXTEENTIMES!


A deeper inference was not my intention. I just thought he'd enjoy the beats. Eh - oh well. Too late to take it back now. And at least I reached out to him and posted it this afternoon. Semantics, sure, but that aught to soften the (odds that I've diminished our chances of exchanging) blow (jobs anytime soon) a bit.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

You know how everyone else knew I was gay? 1:6

To this day, I pronounce the "Celtics" as the "Keltics" anytime I read their name in print. At least my parents knew I was paying attention in class. They had that comfort.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Proboobly not for me.

Chances are, boiz, if you're shirtless in your Facebook profile picture - ain't nothin' romantic gonna happen between us.

I'm exhausted just thinking about the effort it must take to maintain such photo ready musculature. And anyway, it's cheap, leading with your pecs like that. Yeah, I don't wanna work too hard to get at your bod; but I would like to think that the eventual (read: NO later than the second date) unveiling process is somewhat of an achievement.

What? That's a tank top. Kind of. ITWASPRIDE! I had to. I did. Really.

I did.

So shhh it down with the accusations of hypocrisy and keep your eyes on the glasses. There are two pairs of those. Shouldn't be too hard.

Not any more so than my nipples.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

You know how everyone else knew I was gay? 1:5

My favorite part of any live sporting event was the snippets of music they played during time outs and in between quarters.

Also, I was paying more attention to my nachos than the cheerleaders; but prior to puberty that was really just how everyone else knew I was (baby) fat.

Go - (athletes who also play for my) TEAM!

The instant after pleasure.

Unlike Rufus Wainwright, at some point I do want someone to love me. In the meantime, however, those who I only keep on call to give me sex whenever I want it, please note: I also want you to leave almost immediately afterward so I can eat chips alone in my bed.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Straights get gay.

"Is 'top' inclusive enough for my straight audience to identify with?" I inquired of a friend, muse, and regular editor. "Will they understand the term?"

"I think so. It's pretty common," she replied.

"Aight. You would know." I winked - via emoticon, as this was a textual exchange - campily acknowledging her own voracious sexual appetite.

She Laughed Out Loud. "I just asked Chastity and she said, 'Yes. Like: I wear a top.'"

I cackled. In all capital letters, as I do my best to avoid every acronym abused in online communication.

"Nooo," my friend said she continued to spell it out further. "In the G - A - Y world."

"Oh. Okay,"
Chastity replied. "Like someone who gives it. In the butt."

Took some slight prompting, but that clears things up. "Someone." Good. Just wanted to make sure you heterosexuals with an affinity for backdoor roughin' know I'm looking out for you, too.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

(Number) two dirty, ain't flirty.

It's potentially unappealing to scream, "Oh - SHIT!" during anal sex. Said phrase may inspire the top to reply, "UH! Where?!" NOT, "I want to [continue to] go to there."

Good thing "FfffUCK!" is my automatic response to that which hurts so good.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Republicans do romp.

Word on the Tweets is that Sarah Palin got a boob job. Nothing quite like a fresh, faux pair to say,
"Drill [me] baby, DRILL [ME]!"
Too bad moose-sized knockers are sure to make holding onto her rifle a whole lot more difficult. Especially whilst picking off wolves from a helicopter.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Open your heart on.

If you don't give anyone a shot, you'll never find that near-perfect someone on whose face you really do want to shoot your load. And, you know, fall in love with.

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Walk of lame.

Yeah, I see you seein' me, 9 a.m. church goers. And I WISH I deserved those scowls. But unfortunately, these maroon hot pants haven't been on anyone's floor but mine since I picked them up to put them on twelve hours ago.

Save your prayers.

Actually, no. WAIT! If you could, please adjust your focus from the salvation of my soul to that of my abdomen - I'm getting a donut.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Paychen$e is yo' friend.

In many a case, she's only metaphorical, not a voluptuous, six feet tall, 45-year-old black woman with a wit that won't quit any sooner than her ass. Certainly, that glorious Amazon exists, somewhere. And I'll bet she's one hell of a wing(wo)man. For now, though, I can only employ the virtue that is her name. I need to; because...

I like a boi who I KNOW likes me back.

The flirtation is there. It is there, and it is more frequent and pointed than it has ever been before. Now I just have to try my best not to fuck it up.

Dat ain't no easy task.

This level of mutual intrigue is foreign to me. Like North Korea foreign, not the UK or Australia. Although there are always a handful of suitors sweatin' to get sweaty with me, I only encourage their particular affection for the bump of validation such (mostly) unwanted attention provides. I know outside appreciation shouldn't be anything more than a non-vital supplement to one's self esteem, but for once, I want to luxuriate in exchanging lines and lines of it with someone off of whose cock I'd actually desire snorting an 8-ball.

Of this latest crush's proclivity for or against experimenting with illegal stimulants, I'm not actually aware. In fact, aside from a virtual dialogue on our shared and divergent musical tastes, I haven't much of a clue towards any of his inclinations. I'd like to find out, though. I'd like to know everything about him. However, the only way that will ever happen is if I keep on keepin' on as I have: calm, cool, and - as far as he knows - collected.

Thus, now I wait. I wait for his reply to the Facebook message I sent him this morning. An expression of my casual enjoyment (read: nearly incapacitating ecstasy) at seeing him out at a club in West Hollywood after I had told him I would be there and suggested - along with an ever provocative ;) - that he should, too.

It's clear that we've both got balls. And so far it still appears as though we want to see how well this gumption measures up to the other's literal set. I'd like that to have happened last night, but unfortunately it seems as though only endurant composure can guarantee this progression.

I am finding that patience is key in romantic endeavors. That, while difficult, patience is also possible. That I can, I can, I CAN be patient.

Still - what I can't do is say that I wa'nt hopin' he was gonna happen across me as I sat outside of the Starbucks adjacent to our local, West Hollywood Target, this afternoon. The Target where I know - thanks to Twitter - he has shopped before. But what did you, what should any of us really expect?

It is only desperation, not day dreaming, that can and should be quelled.

Friday, June 4, 2010

Pucker up.

We ain't talkin' 'bout cho' lips. Not in the gay male community. Not usually.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

All over my face(book).

Few things in this world strike inordinate fear into my heart. Spiders, wrongful and felonious accusation, and being abducted, held captive, and tortured via a tickling of my private parts. That said, while not quite a phobia, I often worry about accidentally typing the name of one of my many crushes into the status update box instead of the search field, on Facebook.

Sure, most of them are aware of my affections. Yes, I care little for playing mind games. But since graduating from college and moving to Los Angeles, I've learned that the majority of men - gay or straight - shirk away from aggressive participants.

Coy works. Coy is dependable. Coy is not:
JJ Wienkers Has ogled all of your photos. Every single one. Thrice. He also right-clicks Open Link In New Tab on every obvious male moniker and moderately attractive man's face that appears on your Wall. He's as aware of his competition as he is your interests and social activity. He wants you. He wants you BAD. about an hour ago
Thankfully, I've yet to hit "Share" instead of "Search." That would be a tad embarrassing. Mostly, though, I don't want to expose the depths of my infatuation before I lure them into thinking mutual and indecent exposure was their idea.

Beautiful nightmare.

I had a dream, a few months ago, in which the world had been transformed into a global dystopia. Every body of water, large or small, was teeming with bacteria. Hordes of homeless people roamed the streets like zombies. Thankfully they did not feast on flesh, but they did possess even less of a regard for society than their predecessors. That's saying something. Especially in Los Angeles.

Drake was my boyfriend, though. No longer just a crush. Also, I could fly. So the over arching theme was that all was right.

However, he did have a crazy brother. A crazy brother who could control people with his mind. A crazy brother who imprisoned me inside of a spherical, steel cage that he launched into outer space AND below the surface of the seven poisonous oceans because he was jealous that I was with his brother.

Still - I was with his brother. I was Drake's boyfriend. His lover.

All. Was. Right.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Virgins can't be choosers.

Actually, if you're still holding on to it in your 20s, you might as well remain selective with whom you let prompt your rosebud to blossom. In the meantime, however, there's a whole lot of other fun things to do in the garden. And don't you let anyone make you feel that doing so is going to soil your soul.

Sunday, May 30, 2010


It seems as though the Billion $ Boi Toi may not be his daddy's only play thang. According to Facebook, two equally towheaded, twinkish twinz tend to accompany the jet setting duo as they galavant around the globe.

Such intel prompts the question: If three's a crowd and four's an orgy - what's one more?

Sure, I've got the work ethic to make it on my own. But I can't quite say I wouldn't go down for a ticket to their next trip Down UndAH. Or a Honda Fit.

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Bed head.

Damn, did I wake up with some artfully tousled hair. Too bad no one was lying beside me, rarin' to show their appreciation through the administration of a sloppier kind of bed head.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Gym Jim.

What a great nickname for a booty call. You know, if his name was Jim and I met him at 24 Hour Fitness. If I had a second Jim in my phone book and my rotation, as well.

I wouldn't be able to call the other one Slim Jim, though. They would be listed separately amongst my contacts, but "slim" and "gym" sound too similar to provide enough differentiation when inebriated, a condition ripe for sexting. I don't want to be confused as to who I'm attempting to coax over to my house and into my bed.

Not again.

In actuality, it's not likely that this will be much of a problem. Slight of frame isn't a build I gravitate towards. And should an exception be laid, I'll just go a step further and name him Beef Jerky.

Nevertheless - Jims, Sids - Davids, Alans, Griers - better safe than, "I'm sorry, I meant to invite someone else over."

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Sloppy seconds.

As long as there's a shower in between, I'm good.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

To my mother on the day after her 47th birthday.

I feel no remorse in revealing your age. It's just a number, as they say. And hopefully you will be around long enough for it to get bigger and bigger and bigger.

Also, you had it coming when you asked, "Do people stop you on the street and give you money?" after expressing distaste with my haircut and facial scruff via webcam, last night.

"Touche," you will hopefully say.

Because there really is no need to be embarrassed. 40 is the new 20. Look at "Cougar Town." Look at "Sex and the City." Look in the mirror - or the Picture in Picture, above. You HAHT, lady!

MmmHMM. Own it.

And if you're still feeling bashful, scroll down. Read more of my blog. I'm sure you'll find many, many - MANY - other posts by which you are far more inclined to be mortified.

Monday, May 24, 2010

Bosoms, buddies.

Due to the proliferation of metrosexuality and hipster influences, it is becoming increasingly difficult to gauge a man’s sexual preference. The fact that so many modern, heterosexual males treat us gay men with respect, now, doesn’t help, either. That’s the dark side of progress. All this good will and open mindedness – we can hardly tell who just wants to be friends and who is interested in benefits.

While a daunting task, an attractive wing(wo)man can help to eliminate confusion. Simply stroll past the intended target, together, and note toward whose ass his gaze is drawn. This has, or rather, had proven to be my most reliable means of deduction. On Thursday, I discovered an even more efficient method after watching my friend Jedd’s band perform at the King King, a music venue in Hollywood.

Two words: Polynesian. Dancers. Neither of my wing(wo)men nor I needed leave our post near the bar to recognize the lust in each and every man’s eyes as soon as the four pairs of almost bare breasts swiveled onstage.

Unfortunately, it isn’t always that easy. Unlike the gay scene, near-nudity is not a common fixture in predominantly heterosexual establishments. For the most part, we must continue to rely on the walk by, or, even better, introduce ourselves.

Say hello. Share a handshake. It may be the only thing you swap that night, but at least you took a chance. And not just at sex, but the possibility of camaraderie, networking, or even a simple, momentarily enjoyable encounter. Because good conversation, good company – more than coitus – is the real benefit of socialization.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Kiss and they told you so.

"Careful! He's going to blog about you," the friends of my latest carnal acquaintance, Blue, called after him as he led me out of the club last night.

I suppose they’re anticipating something lascivious. A recap so visceral they needn’t envy the gaggle of gays who caught a glimpse - of his lower lip between my teeth, my ass in his lap, my knees parallel with his shoulders – as they strolled past his street level patio. Perhaps even a more concise summary would do. “Big, black, and uncut,” as I texted a few friends after he was kind enough to drive me home this morning.

Expectations – fulfilled.

Friday, May 21, 2010


The only fast food staple in my diet is the smell of grease
Just the scent is enough
It's gotta be
if I want top choice of with whom to get rough.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Sex anthem.

We all need one.

This is most certainly mine. "Eye of the Tiger" - for my one eyed monster.

Service with(out) a blow job.

I have given my number out to many a service person over the last six years. Actually, "given" tends to imply a request. I have left napkins with my phone number and a message to, "Call JJ," for many a hospitality worker to discover.

Bartenders. Baristas. Waiters. Even a waitress.

No one has followed through, yet.

I suppose it is their job to be nice. To flirt. They're working for a tip, not my tip.

Too bad - for them. I tend to leave 20% on the check. I always give a hundred in the bedroom.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Which 'tis nobler?

To go out or not to go out - is rarely a question in Los Angeles. Especially if your friends are already at the bar. A bar you have to drive past on your way home from dinner, anyway.

Should I stop? I'm kind of tired. But I'm always tired. And I haven't been out amongst the gay boiz for a week. Not since I met Saul.

Saul - MMM...

Tired is manageable. Tired is nothing. What's tired?

I might be seeing him tomorrow night, though. Carla's such a wing(wo)man. Maybe I should save my energy.

But I could meet someone else. I could meet someone else tonight and dance with Saul tomorrow. Hmm...There's Gym bar. I wonder who's -


Yikes, JJ. Be careful. You're on Santa Monica Boulevard. Pedestrians cross whenever they feel like it.

"Idiots," I shook my head, giving voice to my inner monologue once more.

I know it's legal, but that doesn't mean it's SMART. Personally...

Continuing the discussion - silently and with myself - I weighed the merits of remaining poor and retaining control of my bodily functions over being awarded a million dollar settlement for the pain and suffering endured from a 35 miles per hour Ford to fairy collision.

I guess I'm going home, I thought as the internal debate subsided a few blocks later.

It wasn't exhaustion or a fixation on Saul, though, that led me there. Caffeine and a supremely casual approach to dating cure and prevent both issues, respectively. Sickness, however, is not so easily remedied. Or overlooked.

A slightly stuffy and somewhat runny nose beginning to whistle with early signs of a sinus infection - not sexy.

I am only teetering on the brink of said symptom. I could have rallied in the hope of scoring a number or a nibble from some bar hopping buck. Instead, I'm home in bed.

Alone tonight, in the hope that I'll be swallowing something more than Mucinex tomorrow.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Don't make a peep - show.

Stoicism in the face of adversity is admirable. In the bedroom, however, with each others cocks in hand, it is not endearing, much less erotic. That steady breath and unwavering stare - I wanted to yell for help, not scream his name.

In hindsight, I suppose the death metal that was blaring when I walked in should have provided more of a cause for alarm. But it's no surprise that I ignored such a subtle warning. Not when I jumped into the shower and sped over to the private residence of someone I'd previously, albeit unintentionally, humiliated in a manner that could have driven a lesser hinged man to plot my murder.

His persistence may have finally paid off and his psyche might be solid, but I value my dignity - and my (sex) life - too much to allow him to cash in on it, again.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Morning sucks.

You know you're an adult when one of the first things you do upon waking up on a Saturday morning is vacuum your apartment. You also know you didn't bring home any ass the night before. Shoot.

Not the Hoovering I would have preferred.

Friday, May 14, 2010

You know how everyone else knows you're NOT gay? 1:4

Vinyl. Backpack.

Backpacks in general, really. And if the bottom portion is constructed out of suede - well, then it's doubtful that you've ever had sex. With anyone.

Anyone but yourself.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Shoot me down, already.

Straightforward rejection used to be much easier to come by. Then Al Gore invented the Internet and Mark Zuckerberg revolutionized social networking. Now, more and more romantically charged requests are going unanswered.

One week later and still no reply. No acknowledgment during open gym, last night, either. We were on opposing teams, but he could have approached me with an explanation after the last whistle was blown. An excuse, at least.

I certainly wasn't going to say anything. Especially not after I nailed him with a dodgeball when, unbeknownst to me, someone else had already tagged him out.

Greeeat, I laughed to myself. He's going to think that was on purpose.

It was. What better vindication than inflicting mild physical discomfort on those who have scorned you? I was aiming to seem less obvious, though. Then again, subtely has never been my forte. Nor my predilection.

Give it to me straight, gay boi(z). Either you'd care to accompany me on an innocent hang out with date-like overtones or not. I know we're a complicated species. Each of us with our own storied emotional make up and irrational quirks. But if "It's not you, it's me," applies, then please - say it.

However copious your hang ups, or minimal your attraction to me might be, a concise brush off is always preferable to cryptic silence.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Rico Sleeveless.

Summer does not officially begin until June 21st, but the season of DIY tank tops is already upon us. Or, me. I got my shears out and my derringers on display. T shirts fear me, boiz want to be - inside of me.

Well, most. Er, a lot. Um, okay, some. SOME.

Not the bouncer at The Woods in Hollywood, though. No. He was not impressed with my sleevelessness, Saturday night.

Luckily, he allowed my friend Alexis to lend me her coat. Luckily for him. She was about to shriek, "HOMOPHOBIA!" and bust his skull open with a verbal caning if he denied me entry, completely.

An actual cane would have gone well with my newly transformed ensemble. Plush, white, and fur-like - I looked like a veritable P.I.M.P with her mid length threads draped over the back of my shoulders.

"Hi. I'm sorry, but I just have to touch your jacket," more than three people stroked my ego and my back.

I made sure to direct the compliments towards Alexis. My gratitude, as well. For salvaging our plans and, most importantly, my confidence. I shuffled into the bar feeling a tad embarrassed. I left with the reminder that fly fashion only encourages swagger.

A dud in designer duds is still a dud. Charisma is charisma, no matter how flashy the fabric.

Monday, May 10, 2010

Pretty like a girl.

Intrigue sparked behind the eyes of an obvious lesbian woman as we walked towards each other down a long hall. Her face fell when we met in the middle. My scruff dashed her dirty dreams.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Watch your language.

You say potato.

I say potAHto.

You say tomato.


That shit is subjecive. Why do you always feel the need to be right? It's not a good color on you.

What? Coulour? With an 'u'?

Alright. Okay. I'm going to shoppe around for a new friend.

Friday, May 7, 2010

Get that dick.

To some, birthdays are an unwelcome reminder that they’re that much closer to death. For others, it’s all about the presents or the cards with cash. Personally, I won’t say no to a gift of money. But it is the sentiment that I savor most.

Love. Support. Encouragement. Validation. On the latest anniversary of my crowning, I experienced a luxuriant expression of them all. The most poetic and pertinent to my present lifestyle, of which, came from my friend Alexis.

My following such direction has Momma Wienkers worried I won't make it to 25. However literally I intend to take it, though, Alexis' haiku should serve as inspiration to all. Cock hungry, 20-something Taurus or not, everyone need remember their right to "Get that [metaphorical] dick."

Romance. Career. Family. Self. Whatever your aspirations may currently be, never wait for a new year to start working towards a new you.

Oh. And, of course - aforementioned, suggested intent to procreate excluded - always wear a condom.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Sex amongst society.

Still - I look forward to touching the figurative stove and finding out just how hot indecent exposure is, myself.

Pretzels or penis?

When flying, I survey the faces of every one of my fellow air travelers. This visual manifest is prompted not by a fear of fundamentalist terrorists, but my own radical belief in the spontaneity of love. There is always the chance that one of my future boyfriends or husbands or mile high initiates might have purchased the seat next to mine.

I’ve shared an armrest with plenty of men. Unfortunately, they have all been straight. And elderly. They’d rather sleep on me than with me.

Assigned seating is no obstacle for fate. I accept that. The Universe just isn’t ready to set me up. When flying Southwest Airlines, however, the open selection policy temporarily eliminates a need for destiny’s intervention. Why lament placement two rows behind that burly brunette when I could choose to sit right next to him? Between him and the sliver fox on the aisle. Beefcake on one side, sugar daddy on the other. No pretzels or peanuts for me, thanks. I’m satiated.

Before plopping down to feast, on my way back from San Francisco, Sunday, I realized I had better inquire as to whether or not they served my kind. In such a frenzy over my in-flight freedom, I hadn’t considered that they might not care to accommodate my guyit. I was ready to lick their lips clean, but perhaps they were consulting a completely different (wo)menu.

Hello, brown eyes. Yeah. I'm looking at you. I'm looking at you and I'm not going to be the one to look away -

He broke eye contact.

First. Shoot. Okay. Not gay. Well - maybe he's just shy. Maybe he's open to experimentation. Maybe he just wants me to -

Catching my unwavering gaze again, he began to fidget.

Stop. Stop staring at him. I smiled rascally. Nah. I'm going to make you squirm one way or another.

I paused next to his row.

Am I going to sit next to you? Am I going to take that empty seat? Am I going to make a move?

My eyes bored into the side of his handsome head as I slid my carry on into the overhead compartment.

What's – I made sure my bag was secure.

It – He jumped as I SLAMMED the bin shut.

Gonna – Adjusting my other satchel, I was prepared to sidle past the silver fox.


He INHALED audibly, nervously.

I choose the middle seat – one row behind.

Relief WHOOSHED past his lips.

I would have preferred to put something in his mouth, but at least he was still within view. Actually, from my diagonal position, I could have ogled his pulchritudinous profile the whole way home. Unfettered, too, as he sure as hell made a point not to turn around. Instead, I followed suit of the sexagenarian next to me and took a nap.

Lecherous though he may have thought me to be, I don’t regret my rubbernecking. Awkwardness is always a worthy risk in life and love. And considering the consistency of my placement alongside those in possession of an AARP subscription, at some point the Universe is bound to substitute bachelors for widowers.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

To myself on my 24th birthday.

"Well I ain't gettin' any younger," I replied to my booty (says he's going to, but never does) call, yesterday. "In fact, today is my last day as a 23-year-old. Wrap your cock and present it to me soon."

Doubtful that I'll hear from him before my celebration fades into that of America's most beloved, tequila soaked Mexican festivity. Hooking up on a personal holiday would be too much of a commitment for the boi who has made it clear he is "Not interested in what a 'date' might imply. [Just] some fun. No strings, sweaty fun."

Can't say I'll turn it down whenever, if he ever does get around to inviting me to get down, again. On my 8,760th day of life, however, I have accrued enough wisdom to know that I need to cease in contributing to this seduction. It will take some will power, but applying this realization and asserting some self-respect is the best gift I could give myself.

Now on to a rousing evening of adult recess, 24 rounds of flip cup, and the opportunity to replace the aforementioned tease's number with at least cinco mas.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

You know how everyone else knows you're NOT gay? 1:3

Burger King. Regularly. And with no hesitation. 

The only fast food staple in my diet is the smell of grease. Just the scent is enough. It's gotta be if I want top choice of with whom I want to get rough.

You know how everyone else knows you're NOT gay? 1:2

That jaw to collarbone gum CHOMP is as blatant an indicator as cross trainers worn with jeans. You are still nice to look at, though. For those two seconds your upper and lower lip maintain contact.

You know how everyone else knows you're NOT gay? 1:1

You "SNORRRT" mucous down the back of your throat. In public. Without any semblance of displeasure.

The consistency is much like that of come, but the flavor is closer to paste. Even if you were gay, I'd retreat.

Post. Haste

Thursday, April 29, 2010


You miss him
so much
so much
Sometimes you feel
you are bound to
but will never
any of those things.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

A wet dream come true.

Late night Tumblr browsing tends to draw my hands away from the keyboard and onto a different laptop. Yesterday evening I hit the jack off pot. A discovery about which every sexual being fantasizes. A nearly-naked Polaroid of my college crush, Spruce Davis.

I considered emailing the blogger to ask if he is the original photographer. If he tasted that treat labeled "Yummerz," himself or simply re-posted it from another site without attribution. He appears to live in France, where I know Spruce currently resides. And he looks equally as emaciated chic and ennui inclined. I suppose I could inquire anonymously, but I think I have my answer.

Prior to graduation, I would have been très jealous of the artiste behind the lens. Whomever it may be, they have captured in an instant what I spent three years hoping to develop. What I began to long for before I even truly acknowledged that my loins burned hot for boiz.

"Tiffany Michaels?" My Multimedia and Popular Culture professor called out the first day of my sophomore year.

"Here!" An enthusiastic hand shot up.

"Adam Drecker?"

"Here." He mumbled.

"Spruce Davis?"

Spruce...I began to scribble rapidly in the upper right hand corner of my notebook...Davis.

"Spruce Davis?"

"Oh!" he giggled. "Here! Sorry!"

He was whispering to his neighbor, but my attention was rapt. I was not going to miss an opportunity to put a name to this striking face. A name I subsequently typed into the Facebook search field - on a routine basis for the next year and a half. My spirits fell and my cock deflated the moment I discovered he had tightened his privacy settings. It wasn't long, though, until both sprang back, raging harder and more hopeful than ever before.

After a semester abroad, my friend Chelsea returned to Minneapolis the autumn of our senior year. While she brought no trinkets in her suitcase, she had a better souvenir programmed into her phone. Her best friend over in Europe, Tess, quickly became an integral part of our stateside circle. A kindred spirit, we clicked immediately. The fact that she shared a lease with Spruce Davis was just icing on the Funfetti we’d often munchie out on.

“Feel free to invite your roommate,” I’d offer whenever we made plans.

“I’m trying,” she’d always return my smirk; but it wasn’t until after Martin Luther King Jr. Day that even the briefest of introductions were made. Time was ticking fast. And as our days on campus grew numbered, so did my chances at making a pass for a piece of long unrequited ass.

Or so it seemed.

“HEY!” A greeting rang out behind me, the morning after another Valentine’s Day spent numbing our hearts with sugar and our brains with a bowl.

I squinted through the snow reflected glare. “- Hello – OH!” I nearly bit the icy sidewalk. So surprised was I to bump into my obsession serendipitously, much less have him initiate conversation.

“Hold on a second.” He spoke into his phone before holding it against his chest and smiling at me. “How are you?

Great, actually,” a smile erupted between the bulk of my scarf and the fur of my trapper hat. “Yourself?”

“Oh, gosh, busy; always busy, you know? Hey, how great was that cake, huh? Thank Gawd for Tess, right? She cut me a piece before she left.” He took a sharp drag from the cigarette burning between his red, gloveless fingers.

“Ah - Yeah!” I tried to keep up. “Delicious alternative to sex.”

“I know. But, ugh.” He frowned exaggeratedly. “Alone as usual.”

Really? I grinned mischievously, a discordant response.

“But I had to work late anyways; so,” he waved his hand dismissively, “no big deal!”

I nodded slowly, searching for a way to prolong Cupid’s belated gift.

OhmyGAWD! He remembered his phone. “Hello?! Brittany?! Sorry!” He grimaced exaggeratedly.

“Go, go! Get back to your friend,” I took a step away. “Nice bumping into you though. You should really come over sometime."

“Oh yeah! I hear you guys like to,” his voice dropped to a stage whisper, smoke people up.

“Yes,” I laughed, “we do enjoy spreading the love.”

“Then I’ll definitely be over,” he smiled, his eyebrows rising in sync.

I would have preferred my effervescence to be allure enough, but a bubbling bong worked for, now manic, me.

“He stopped me. While he was on the PHONE. I wouldn't have even seen him!” I recanted my triumphant encounter for the 17th time. “I don't want to get my hopes up; but it's gotta mean something. Right?!

Hmm - my now roommate began, mockingly contemplative. “I DON'T FUCKING KNOW.”

No one ever will. Not after what happened the night he finally did touch his lips to my – paraphernalia.

“We can drop you two off,” I offered as we stood outside of First Avenue, Minneapolis’ downtown danceteria.

“Mmm,” he nodded, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he glanced over to the curb where a sweat drenched Chelsea and Tess stood on the lookout for a cab.

Or – I struggled to thrust a hand down past the waistband of my jeans.

- Ah – His eyes flit frantically back over towards our respective roommates.

“You could come home with me.” I arched my eyebrows and brandished a condom – yanked from within the tight confines of my boxer briefs – between my thumb and forefinger.

Perplexingly, he did not accept. That night I passed out alone. My crush, however, was not put to bed. Alternately, it remained strong enough for me to stake my credibility and score him a job as a server and caterer at the restaurant where I worked. A desperate move, I now know. Yet, it was reason enough for him to accept my offer of a ride home after a bar closing shift. Not just that, but as we had to walk to my house first, he crossed the threshold once again.

I did lure him with bud. Sure. Okay. But with the two of us alone at my kitchen table, logic and self-respect were the last things on my mind.

“It’s-s-s so–oh–oh co–oh–oh-old,” he stuttered through chattering teeth.

“I know. I’m sorry. There’s no insulation. But we just cashed this pipe. So, it’s going to be a bit before I can drive.”
I could barely contain my euphoria at such an airtight delay.

“Ug-g-gh.” he shivered. “Do you have any gloves?”

“Here, wear these,” I grabbed a mismatched pair of oven mitts off of the kitchen counter behind him. “Oh my Gawd! Stay there.”

Giggling gleefully, I retrieved a Polaroid camera from my room.


I had done it. I had immortalized my most intense infatuation (then, to date) via my beloved medium. There were only 36 photos left in my stash and no more packs of the deceased film in any store’s stock. He was worth it, though. He was worth the $1.00+ a shot. My affection, however, of that he was not.

As that photo developed I realized I could finally allow my lust to fade. I’d already begun to accept that nothing tangible would transpire. We’d been Facebook friends for months. And now that he was forever part of my Polaroid collection, too, I could wean myself from a distance.

I would have preferred the Tumbled shot to my own. Still, I am in digital possession of them both. More importantly, I hold the knowledge that while I'm not necessarily better than him, he was never any good for me.

Plus, even though he looks better than ever, so do I. And – living in France, I imagine the hipster musk I knew him to emanate has only grown more pungent with expatriatism. Scruffy, oui. Stinky, non.