Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Bald over Baghdad.

I used to be terrified of death. The summer before my sophomore year of college I was sure I was going to die before I had a chance to get back to my friends in Minneapolis and the greatest semblance of freedom I’d yet to experience. I made it, clearly, and have since realized that what I was really afraid of was never getting a chance to realize my true identity, to come out of the closet and make a stab at an honest, unapologetic existence.

While my daily commute here in Los Angeles proves more harrowing than a week’s worth of routine back in the Midwest, I no longer fear an untimely demise. Sure, it’d be a shame to be extinguished before I have a chance to fall in love, to sell a screenplay, to return to Paris; but so long as I continue to find a smidge of gladness in each day, I’ll be ready. There are always more reasons to be happy than sad; however - even for one as enlightened as I, negative stressors aren’t always so easily ignored.

“Mmm,” my stylist began to nod, scrunching up his nose, “yeah…it looks like you’re hair is thinning.”

“AH!” I gasped. “WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?”

“At least you’ve still got your body,” he attempted to assuage the alarm he had ignited.

“There’s no cure? No pill I can take?” I begged of his reflection.

“No,” he shook his head, “not to grow back what you’ve already lost.”

“Come ON, science.”

“There is Propecia,” he proffered. “But that’ll only stop any further recession.”

“I’m going to have to look into that. I mean, how much could it be? Whatever, it’s worth it.”

A $100 a month, he said. A $100 times twelve months is $1,200 a year. $1,200 times, what? I’m 23, so, I really won’t care once I hit, say, 70? Yeah, 70. That’s 47 years from now. 47 times $1,200 that’s, ah, that’s - $400 and something THOUSAND. Oh Gawd. Oh – no. NO. YES! Only $41,400. That’s better. That’s worth it. Riiight?

“No, JJ,” my mom stepped in over the phone when I got home. “There are a lot of unworthy side effects that come with drugs like that.”

I can’t remember the rest of her words, exactly, but I do believe sexual consequences were implied and what good is hair on my topmost head if my other one is all but dead. Good point mom. “I NEVER SAID THAT!” She’d be likely to respond, now.

“Your dad never had hair like you, either, JJ,” she’s had to calm my paranoia on other occasions, as well. "He had wispy, baby locks."

“That’s not how male pattern baldness works,” I whined. “They say it all has to do with your mother’s father and grandpa is almost COMPLETELY bald.”

“- Well –“ she shrugged. “What can you do, I guess.”

Chill the fuck out, is all. According to an ABC news study, “about half of all [American] men” tend to go bald. That softens the blow a bit. And allows for me to savor the compliments in the meantime.

"You know how I knew it was you?" My friend Liana asked after making her way across a crowded bar a few months ago. “Because of your perfect hair."

While being a hot piece of ass is as new to me as integrating into the gay community, I know it’s the existence of the latter that means so much more than the potential fleetingness of the former. At least we live in a city, in a country, as generally progressive as Los Angeles, USA. At least we’re not soldiers fighting a war that we were misled into. At least we don’t have warts that create the impression of tree bark in place of our skin or fur on our faces, conditions which Liana recently Googled in an effort to bring some perspective to her own self-pitying state.

I'll take any of those pieces of mind over this glorious swatch of hair.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Wis(e ass)dom: Exclusivity.


Or antibiotics are necessitated. Whichever comes first. Well, not in my case, of course. In the instance of the amendment, I'm only speaking to the rest of you.

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

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Alexander Graham bulimia.

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

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

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


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

Mario standard Hispanic apellido.

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


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

Piers Bosley.
Shane blonde guy.


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

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


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

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


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

Corrin.
Julie.


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

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

Saturday, March 27, 2010

And again there were eleven - or, 53.

Only this time I was the one whose attention was being sought.

"I've never seen you this sober," my friend Carla observed at Akbar last Saturday. “You still dance exactly the same, though.”

“That’s cause I just love dancin’.”

So much so that I was still kickin’ up mah feet and makin’ shapes with my arms despite the fact that I was both exhausted and had to fart. Relief was in sight, just 10 minutes away from our previously decided departure time of 1:30 a.m. when a buxom blonde swiveled her way across the room.

Heyyy,” she smiled.

Heyyy,” we, of course, returned without missing an undulation.

“My friends wanted me to come over and ask you to dance with them,” she pointed to a pair of males 10 short, black and white, 80s holdover floor tiles away.

The taller of her two friends was shirtless, his taut abdomen rippling to the beat. So, “Uh – yeah, duh I accepted her invitation.

He had some rhythm, himself, not to mention a roguish smile that extended past his imperfectly aligned teeth to his anticipatory eyes.

“What are you doing that for?” I asked slyly, touching his chest as he began to slip his shirt back over his head.

He kept it off for a while longer, but unfortunately that was all I got to see of his luxuriously lean physique. Once again, I went home to chips and dip, not dick. Alright, okay, it was salsa.

Plus, while I may have subbed white corn for coitus that evening, I did get his phone number, promise of a date, and proof of stamina as our final exchange went down after the lights went up.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

ATTN: Universe,

I LOVE that it's already Thursday. As I inch nearer to death, I imagine I may not be quite as excited by how fast the weeks progress, but for now the hop and skip from one weekend to the next is much appreciated.

Hugs, buds, and ecological awareness,

JJ Wienkers

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Necking in near-hybrids with homos.

While a friend who may or may be my roommate lost both her half and whole virginity in a car, until last night I’d yet to even make out in a vehicle, stationary or otherwise.

"This is you?"
"This is me."


Open, open.
Shut, shut.
Buckle up.

Glance over,
grin,
annnd -
we're

“Two men kissing in West Hollywood,” Sid36 smirked as a lone civilian strolled past his Civic.

“Fancy boy that.” I ensnared his lips in mine once again.

Despite the ease in his groping of my bulge that satin dodgeball shorts indulged, the most titillating public display occurred on the way from the bar to his car.

Is he – I watched him begin to unzip his hoodie. Is he gonna give my his JACKET?

“You don’t have to do that.” He slipped the cozy cotton over my shoulders. “You’re only wearing a T-shirt, too.”

“Yeah,” he smirked, “but I’m going to fuck you first.”

“Oh - that’s right.” I snuggled into his sweatshirt and the crook of his arm.

It may not have been a letterman’s jacket, and the pinning he had in mind for our future was more of a salacious innuendo than a traditional declaration of commitment, but in terms of referring to a state of mind so tangible it’s almost a physical destination – I was most certainly in Pleasantville.

And you can relax, mom, we’ve yet to penetrate the Bonertown border. That’s still a few dates up the thighway.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

(Go)oglin': dark brown.

Ultimately, I decided


was more illustrative than


"...Sexy, [Worn Ebonized Beech on Alder hued], and statuesque is but one of my many preferred sex partner genres."

(Emotional) health care reform.

Yesterday, less than 24 hours after House Democrats passed a landmark Senate bill on healthcare reform, a dodgeball to the head thrust my friend’s skull into a cement wall and, subsequently, the system.

"I am FREAKING out," I stage whispered to my roommate. "Maybe not so much as Liana, but still -"

“Relax, dude.” My roommate’s calm did little to appease my malaise.

Green – not from inexperience with head trauma or the Emergency Room, but a different brand of Californian medicine – as we were, an awareness of my own mortality loomed large and magnified as we sat in wait outside of triage.

Oh my Gawd. Oh my Gawd. “Oh my GAWD,” luckily I remembered a recent revelation, a welcome distraction. “Can you believe that about Lyon?”

“Oh – oh – we’re – we’re gonna talk about this - now?” Snarkily, as is usual, my roommate caught herself up. “Oh – okay.”

“He is BEAUTIFUL!” I dropped my voice as she raised her eyebrows and warning. “Those arms in that tank top, tonight. That face! UH – oh!” I giggled. “Who would have thought, though, as rampantly productive as my romantic life has been, that’d I start crushin’ on a straight boy again?”

Who, but everyone.

Lusting after the unattainable is as basic a human emotion as healthcare is a need. Let us accept the facts and move forward as best we know we should. It was capitalist greed standing in the way of the recent bill and if we the people can rally together and conquer such a previously insurmountable force, then we the individuals can get out of our own ways and reform our interpersonal lives.

Serendipitously for Liana, she’s got a prescription for (trademarked brand) Vicodin to ease herself into the transition.

Monday, March 22, 2010

New Age, no age.

The upwards-of-30 crowd seems to be as mad for me as t(w)eenage girls, closeted gays, and sexually repressed housewives are for Edward Cullen.

Sid36 wants to take me for a ride - on his motorcycle. The pouch of gold at the end of my foray into celebrating St. Patty's Day in a raucous way is playing it cool, but the texts are still coming. Even my first and most dapper dabble into this age bracket has come back into my inbox, ;)'s in tow.

There was a point during my first year in Los Angeles in which I believed the apparent absence of appreciation by anyone else born during the Reagan administration implied a lack of physical desirability. I felt like the awkward girl in (gay high) school, the one whom the boys wouldn't regret overlooking until they grew up and realized intelligence is sexy and nerds make the best people. Increased involvement with more of my homosexual peers and West Hollywood assmates has proven that to be a bit of a blanket statement, a reaction to the plague of low self-esteem for which we ourselves are almost solely responsible. No longer riddled with social small pox, blinded by the resulting corneal ulceration that is insecurity, I also see that, as my friend Megan recently texted me, "Gah, older men [really] r so sexy!!"

Even more alluring, though, is an ageless spirit. You're only as young as you feel, not who you feel up. Despite the air of vapidity and the plasticine face perceived by many non-residents, an eternally youthful exterior is not what most Los Angelenos are after so much as enough time to fulfill our dreams.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Wis(e ass)dom: Hate sex.

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

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

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

Friday, March 19, 2010

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt - his name is HIS name, too.

It’s not often that I meet someone who shares my name. Justin, sure, but very rare is it that I find another JJ. In fact, before joining the Los Angeles Dodgeball Society last fall, my childhood best friend’s grandma was the only other one I knew of. Even then, no one outside of her closest upper middle-aged lady friends called her anything but Joanne and being an eight-year-old Midwestern boy, she was Mrs...whatever my friend's mother's maiden name is, to me, anyway. Thus, until my identically initialed new friend invited me to a recent house party, I've never been confused as to who our shared acronym was being addressed.

"JJ!" My name, his name, rang out from all corners of the living room.

"Hmm?" I glanced around expectantly. "Oh. No? No, not me. Him. Okay. Yep. Mmmhmm. Yeah..." I clasped my hands together and returned to nodding excessively as I surveyed this established group of friends, searching for a way to edge in on the clusters of conversation already in progress.

"Hey!" I grasped on to the attention of a face I recognized, a face occupied only by the chips being stuffed inside of it. "Nice to see you again." He frowned slightly, quizzically. "We met at the bar last week."

"Oh...Yeah...?" He CHOMPED down on another handful of salty bits.

"What's your name?" Another friend new to both me and the present crowd chimed in as he came to stand by my side.

"Matthew. Matt's my boyfriend," he pointed at one of the hosts engaged in a conversation with the only two women in attendance.

"Oh!" I chuckled. "You have the same name. That must get confusing."

“No, not really, well –" CHOMP. "Sometimes they call him Matthew and I’m like, whaaat?" He contorted his crumb-flecked kisser into a befuddled expression. "That’s confusing. But most of the time he’s Matt and I’m M.Ro.” CHOMPCHOMPCHOMP. CHOMP.

“- Ah - What?” A slight snicker snuck past my own, smirking lips.

“Well, my name’s Matthew Roman and I started calling myself M.Ro around the time Jennifer Lopez changed her name to J.Lo. I brought it with me when I met these guys and they’ve been calling me it ever since.”

"- How – do you spell?...That?” My friend grabbled for a response.

“Oh, capital "M," capital "R," lowercase "o." Just like J.Lo.” He fired off, as though we weren't the first to request the specific spelling.

At this point, my derision sputtered forth. Thankfully, though, it broke free in sync with the opening lyrics of "Bye Bye Bye" and the ensuing accompaniment of nearly all those in attendance drew his attention away from the disbelief apparent in my involuntarily dilated eyes. Scorn's out of the sack now, though.

While it wouldn't have done much to ingratiate myself with this new circle of gays at the time, today I must decree a (JJ) Fact of Life: you can NOT nickname yourself. No, no; never. That isn't how the process works. Of course, should you abhor an externally designated moniker, any less-than-obnoxious adult will honor your request for a kibosh on referencing you as such; but still you can only ever go by your actual name or a different given-sobriquet just so long as neither is self-proclaimed.

Should anyone infer their own identity, the aliases ascribed here are always guised enough to assure a confident air of ignorance in the ruddy face of indignant oversensitivity. Every post protects the host. That said, I expect I'll earn a few epithets in the years and paragraphs to come. If J.Jo is one of 'em, it won't be coming from me.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Speed 3: A Curse Accelerated.

On Monday news of Kate Winslet’s split from her husband Sam Mendes surfaced and a friend, Liana, drew my attention to the supposed curse of the Best Actress Academy Award. Before I could find the time to further Google this conspiracy theory, Sandra Bullock was blindsided by her husband Jesse James’ infidelity and People magazine confirmed her exodus from their Southern California family home. Winslet’s heart went on for a whole year after her victory, but Bullock made it less than two weeks, leaving Helen Mirren as the only woman of the last decade to have maintained the relationship she was in at the time Oscar made three.

Superstitious or otherwise, the greater intrigue is whether or not opposites can uphold the adage and nurture an attraction. Paula Abdul may be so whacked out she’s still coming together with MC Skat Kat. Woody Harrelson has an Asian wife. And for all we know the most divergent aspect of Bullock and James’ union, for each aforementioned union, could be their outward appearances. But there in lies the conundrum an’it don’t seem tah wanna budge.

Sandy’s sorrows aside, what does this mean for me with my explorative sexual palate? Are the rakishly ratty denizens of Silver Lake a lost cause? What about West Hollywood’s most chic and chiseled? The athletes? The academics? The occasional bear or business-minded boi? Oy gay, WHAT – is a hippie homo to do?

Rage on,
rage on hard on.
While a condom,
I hope not,
a heart can stand to be broken.
But fool me,
fool me once,
and
FUCKYOUGETOUTOFMYLIFE!

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Ho(rror) stories: No party en mis pantalones. 1:2

Like any young man who has read more Higgins Clark than Hemingway, I often daydream of a future alongside a strapping, six foot, dark haired, chocolate eyed hunk of a man. Preferably, the birth of our relationship won't coincide with the murder of my sister and culminate in a fight for my own life in which my lover proves his devotion by tackling my sibling’s killer just as he is about to throttle the last bit of breath from my own cowl - necked - THROAT. Alright, okay, that might be a bit far fetched. Androgynous though I may be, we all know I'm not so gay as to don such an obviously feminine garment. Also, sexy, swarthy, and statuesque is but one of my many preferred sex partner genres. "Generally tantalizing" is as close as I get to a definitive type.

While such an open-minded approach to selecting who I’d like to satisfy my body does free me from the tether of Santa Monica Boulevard, the monotonous frequenting of homogeneous homo haunts, I do savor the cross section of Los Angeles’ gay male population provided by my West Hollywood dodgeball league. Eight teams, 80% teammates, and all on far greater display lined up across the well-lit court than one could ever be when seen through a drunken haze in a darkened club. Having never before been an active participant in any niche of the gay community, this level of public, premeditated pursuit is an unprecedented opportunity in the advancement of my social and romantic lives. That said, commonality doesn’t translate into an easy opening for introduction or any progress past simple ogling when the focuses of my fancy dodge the post-match revelry at Gym in favor of another bar.

Sure, I can always count on the attendance of the Beautiful Dudes – kings among queens in terms of physique and dodgeball dexterity – as well as the marvelously misfit make up of my team and the Vampire Layers, but the Haughty Hipsters haven’t been present to entice into a round or eleven of flip cup or fuck since the start of the season. The superiority and poor sportsmanship of which their name is emblematic has certainly soured my taste for the team as a whole, but there are still a few dilapidated denim and plaid-clad players whom I would love to nail in the non-violent, sensual sense of the verb. Although one of said prospects actually did return to carouse with the rest of the league last night, it wasn’t until my fellow Power Bottoms and I made our way up the drag of debauchery to Fiesta Cantina that I honed in on a tattered, tartan target.

"All by your lonesome," I lured his attention, "Or workin' your magic?"

"Working my magic," he laughed. "You?"

"Oh I'm workin' my magic. I'm working my magic right here."

I arched my eyebrows, grinning mischievously - like I do.

"- Oh -" It took him a moment. "Ah -"

I chuckled - like I also do. "I gotcha. Good luck."

He was gone by the time I got back to my friends - three seconds later. Eh. Tall, dark, handsome, AND hip a character though he may be, the romantic hero of my personal story I guess he is not. And regardless, I shan’t


Not readily. Tears are a fluid foreign to my face. Plus, I’ve already ensorcelled one gentleman this week and it’s only Wednesday.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

You know how everyone else knew I was gay? 1:4

Apparently the CIA is as desperate to recruit personnel as they were to find weapons of mass destruction.


This would have been thrilling news the second semester of my freshmen year in college. After watching the entire first season of "Alias" in four days, I spent the next week skulking around corners, kicking open imaginary doorways, and brandishing a pantomimed pistol. Alas, as the abundance of THC I'd already inhaled was not an illusion, I would have had to settle for storming my (now) roommate Kara's unlocked dorm room, anyway.

Much to the felicity of my hallmates, this fantastical fascination soon waned and I reverted to my more innocuous, albeit equally polarizing, habit of traipsing around barefoot. A passion for the covert was merely compartmentalized, however, a spy skill to which being in the closet lent a mastery. It would be another year until I came out, but my affinity for espionage surfaced again the following fall.

The milk dispenser - from which 1%, 2%, skim, and even chocolate gushed like soda from a fountain - was no longer the most mesmerizing sight to be found in the university dining hall. Instead, a beautiful boy with large, permanently excited-looking eyeballs was the sight my friends and I looked forward to most. "Crazy Eyes," we dubbed him.

"Maybe we should find out what his real name is," I proposed after a few weeks of ogling those lustrous orbs.

"Oh. Yeah, okay."

Although all in concurrence, we chose not to invite him over to our table, nor did we take the less daunting first step of making introductions while in line for the cereal smorgasbord. No, instead we decide to follow him back to his dorm room in the hopes that his decorative name tag would still be hanging on the door.

We timed the completion of our meals with his. Wolfing down our french fries and our mayo laden breaded chicken sandwiches, we dropped our trays and hurried out the door behind him. Slowing to a stroll, we licked casually at our soft serve twist cones and watched him swipe his student ID, entering the East wing of our shared residency, a wing to which we ourselves did not have access. Scurrying forward once more, we grabbed a hold of the knob before the barrier slammed shut.

Stifling giggles, we trailed at a hundred foot distance, only rushing our amble as he turned corners. We skidded to a halt around the third or fourth bend, crashing noisily against one and other as we watched him slide his key in the lock. The sound of his latch clicking back into place echoed down the empty hall, prompting the three of us forward in a sprint.

"Jordan!" We whispered gleefully, fleeing the scene, intel secured, stalkeration a success.

Our feeding times remained in sync for the remainder of the semester, but we never did initiate a proper greeting. Kara and I spent the spring in Spain and upon returning to campus the next year I began the process of coming out to all of my anticipative friends. Several months and a first public boy crush later, I asked a guy in my creative writing class on a post Valentine's Day date. He responded with a kind, but definitive rejection, claiming to already be involved with someone, someone whom his Facebook photo albums revealed to be none other than CRAZY EYES.

Neither he nor Jordan, as I suppose it would now be most polite to call him, ever discovered our stealth investigation or enduring obsession with his over-sized oculi. Vindication was unknowingly enacted, however, when in workshop my classmate deemed the love scene in my short story, "One Last Summer," indicative of the author's obvious lack of sexual experience.

...[Elaine] turned to reach for her book and nearly fell out of bed when she saw a shirtless man standing in front of the open window across the room.

“Holy, fucking Jesus, Phil.”
She hissed through bared teeth, the moonlight glinting off her opaline veneers. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Do you want to get caught?”

He responded only by arching his eyebrows sharply downwards and thrusting a stiff index finger against his pursed lips, beckoning her outside with the other.

She slipped out from beneath the bed sheet and padded over towards the window, swinging one leg over the windowsill, straddling the frame before dropping softly onto the prickly grass below. She ignored Phil’s extended hand, stood up, and marched into the woods with him close behind. Once hidden behind the thick trunks of the ancient maple trees, Elaine whipped around, ready to berate Phil for his careless actions, but his lips were on hers before she could begin her tirade. She grabbed the back of his head, plunging deeper into his kiss, but pulled back after a moment, grabbing his hand and leading him deeper into the woods.

There she pushed him roughly against the jagged bark of one of the innumerable sugar maples, grabbing his cheeks and pulling him into another, deeper, if that was possible, kiss. He began to take charge, leaning into the kiss, his stubble scraping against her chin, as he spun her around, shoving her against the tree. Elaine did her best to stifle a moan as she felt the rough bark scratching against her back, against her butt, through her thin t-shirt, the only thing between her and the tree, the night air, Phil. She raised her arms above her head and dug her fingers into the bark, covering them in sap as Phil wrenched his shorts to one side, spread her legs, and thrust inside of her.

No longer able to contain herself, Elaine arched her back, grinding her head into the bark, releasing a guttural howl, appropriately animalistic considering the setting. A few minutes and infinite grunts and groans later, they slumped to the ground in a breathless tangle of sweaty limbs and worn cotton. She nuzzled her head into his chest, spreading sap over his dark hair. As her breathing returned to normal, she sat up, straddled his abdomen, and slapped him hard across the face.

“Don’t you ever show up at my window like that again.” She stood up, pushed her hair away from her face, and walked away as gracefully as any woman wearing nothing but an extra large, man’s t-shirt could...

As keen as the critique may have been, as self-deprecating though I can now be, it was quite the shot between my young, evenly spaced and average-sized, momentarily widened eyes.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Ho(rror) stories: No party en mis pantalones.

I am not one to pussyfoot in the plight for penis. It takes but the merest of intrigue to prompt my initiation of an introduction. Dignity being subjective, we have nothing to lose.

"So," I sidled up to the bar at Fiesta Cantina in West Hollywood, draping my arm across the muscled shoulders of a fellow patron. "Wanna give me your other beer?"

I grinned impishly as his eyes met mine.

"No."

"- Oh -" It took me a moment. "Ah -" I began to chuckle, "Well -" slinking backwards. "Yeah. Have a good night, then."

Eesh, I grimaced exaggeratedly, cartoon-like, at my friends who only shook their heads, continually beguiled by my gumption as they are.

Beats me why he didn't bite, though. I suppose I wasn't as obvious with my intentions as I had been when shirking my shirt at the same ho hole on Halloween a couple months prior.


Dios sabes he wouldn't have been able to resist that lust beckoning belly.

No matter. "ON TO THE NEXT!" I always trumpet. And were I a less prideful man, a more timid social swashbuckler, I could take advantage of the two-for-one beverage special myself and double fist my sorrows off the plank.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Lez be fair, gay?

Upon confirmation of my Facebook friendship with the Billion $ Boi Toi, a newer crush of mine, I discovered that he too enjoys thwacking the ball around. Thus, my friend Liana, conniving as she is, offered to take some photos of our next, our first opposing tennis match. It would be an opportunity for her to dust off her latent artistry as well as draw my crush's attention to our shared hobby by posting the pictures online.

Lookin' all sexy though we were, we had forgotten it was not just her camera that had been neglected, but our grasp of the game. While the length of our rallies did increase, we certainly haven't recovered a finesse anywhere near worth capturing on film for private consumption, much less encouraging commonalities between myself and a romantic interest. Any lingering notion of inviting the Boi Toi on a court date was thoroughly shattered when, running for a backhand, I smashed the whole left side of my body against a metal pole securing what was likely meant to be a barrier between the courts but appears nothing short of a completely extraneous and highly dangerous chain-link protrusion.

"I'm alright! I'm alright!" I appeased the concern of the boiz bandying next to us, holding my hands and racket aloft to illustrate my point as I limped back to the baseline, perpendicular to my tittering friend.

I've got a lumpy, tender upper femur and a bruise so thin and defined it appears as though I nearly avoided a blunt trauma induced laceration; but the most pervasive assault to my dignity was yet to come and it would leave no physical evidence.

"I'm gay, I'm gay, I'm gay, I'm gay, I'm gay, I'm gay, I'm gay..."
came jarring through the forest green mesh separating us and the adjacent jungle gym. "I dare you - I dare you - I dare you to run around and say "butt" 30 times," a barely pubescent boy continued, prompting another of his three friends. "I'm a faggot, I'm a faggot, I'm a faggot," followed, and that's when I began to seriously contemplate kicking some 12-year-old ass.

"SHUT YOUR MOUTHS YOU LITTLE PUNK BRATS!"

"YEAH!" Encouraged one half of the pair of otters who had taken the place of the previous gay opponents on the neighboring court.

"Wha - whaaat?"
they uttered after a moment of stunned silence, seemingly more confused than hostile. Yet, just as I began to soften, let kids be ignorant kids, they started back up again with another round of, "I'm gay, I'm gay, I'm gay..."

"This reminds me of my days as a behavioral therapist," Liana began to soothe my seething. "You tell them, flat out, that what they are doing is not okay and then you ignore subsequent episodes until they stop. Later, you explain why it is wrong."

"I don't think I can subscribe to that," I countered, "But I at least I did say my piece.

My snarl simmered, but the most vocal of the otters only became more agitated upon hearing one of the body hairless hoodlums bellow, "YOU SUCK DICK!"

"HEYYY!" He roared in a very bear-like manner, finally scattering the mouthy, young jerks.

Children or not, they were in West Hollywood. Gay town. Our town. In this municipality, heterosexuals are the interlopers and it is our culture which should be respected.

"Gay," was a popular insult when I was a kid. "That's gay." "You're gay." "Gay Gay," my name was regularly punned and usually followed by a titty twister at the hands of my best friend's older brother. Once, at an indoor soccer tournament, said friend and I walked around shaking the hands of all our teammates and inquiring, "Lez be friends, gay?" Of a funnier exchange we could not think.

That was the 90s, though. We didn't know any better. The adults didn't teach us, they didn't teach each other. I didn't even fully understand what homosexuals were until my freshmen year of high school - at least. But it's 2010 now, folks (queer or otherwise). Gone are the sideways hats and analogous logic. We are the grown ups and it is time for us to take a stand.

"WHAT did you just say to me?" I responded to a straight acquaintance's dismissal of me as a "fag."

"Oh, shut the fuck up. You know what I mean."

"No, actually, I don't."

"It's just something I say. My other gay friends say it's cool."

"No. It is not just something you say and it's never okay to say it. I disagree with your gay friends. I don't even let gay people call me a faggot. That is like the n word."

"No - it isn't."

"It is the n word. It's the c word. You wouldn't go up to a woman and call her a cunt, would you?"

"No!" He was aghast.

"Oh, that's the worst thing you can call a woman,"
a straight female friend chimed in. "I understand what he means, though. "That's gay" - I say it sometimes without even realizing."

"Yes, yes it is. But there's nothing for straight white men. Redneck? Asshole? Puritan? Nothing is as harsh as the n word, cunt, or faggot. I'm not scolding you -"

"Yes you are," he interrupted.

"Okay. Yes I am. But I know it's not coming from a bad place. Just be cognizant."


He's working on it, as is she from whom he gained sympathy. Even my best friend from home slips up on occasion, but almost always catches herself before I can do more than frown in disapproval. I'll admit some flippancy with the c word myself, and "retarded," but we all need to move away from any derogatory application of these adjectives. The answer is not to take ownership as the black community has with the n word, but to completely relinquish all usage that does not advance this agenda of extradition.

I dare you - I dare you - I dare you to try it.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Wis(e ass)dom: Kissing...and casual sex.

My middle sister sent me a letter recently and of the contents my mother would be oh - so - proud, albeit conflicted:


NO, not because she - or my sister, as the placement of the sticker seems to imply - desires a sampling of my sensual skill set. Yoinks, people. I'm from Wisconsin, not Virginia. And incest aside, innocence inferred:


If only my friend Stacy's extended family were privy to the manifesto that is my roommate's and my kitchen wall.


We're more huggers, the Wienkers, and as my mom has recently become painfully and unavoidably aware of her two oldest children's propensity towards casual sex, she may very well be wrapping her arms around herself and rocking forward and back as I type.

"You know, I was thinking about that guy," she started in recently, referencing the sugar daddy of a newer crush I'd made mention of the day before. "He's had to have been with a lot of people. And you know what they say -"

"What?" I smiled through the phone, already certain of her reply.

"When you sleep with someone, you sleep with everyone else they've slept with before."

"Oh - my - GAWD," I began to cackle. "Not when you wear a condom."

"What? You kids these days aren't supposed to be uncomfortable talking about sex with your parents."

"I'm not embarrassed. But what do you know about casual sex? You got married when you were 18."

"I have casual sex all the time - in my own bed."

My guffaws became more boisterous. Most people get squeamish when the topic of their parents' intimacy arises, not me. I sure don't want to hear details or suggested positions and technique, but I hope they're as wild as they ever were. I know I want to be, that I had better be, sexually active until the day my whole body goes stiff.

"I get your point," my breathing leveled, "I just don't agree. Not when you use protection."

"Still, you can't be too sure where they've been."

"Alright, okay. I'll take it with a grain of salt - and a condom."

There was one bit of advice in the conversation, another reference to his exorbitantly wealthy older boyfriend, that did inspire me to think about thinking twice about involvement with the crush in reference.

"Be careful, JJ."

"What? You mean, because he could have me KILLED?!"

"Well - kind of. You don't really want to piss him off."

"Hmm...he is a billionaire. It'd be a lot easier for him to have me taken care of and disposed of, never to be heard from again, than say - a server or some other equally impoverished peer."

"...Yeah...Be careful. Please."

Whatever the outcome (shot), she heard it. You read it. And for once, I am grateful for the omnipresence of the Google cache.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Twitterotocol.

From nursery school to the nursing home, the interpersonal landscape of all our lives is thick with people we don’t particularly like. Coworkers, neighbors, friends of friends – there will always be those whom we must simply tolerate. It is an inevitability of symbiosis, one that has been present since before humans could speak, much less function long enough to need assisted living.

Those in tune with social cues are often cognizant of the instances in which they are the subjects of begrudging association. With the arrival of the 21st century and the integration of social networking, however, this absence of goodwill is now verifiable. It need not be so dramatic an declaration as creating groups dedicated to the hatred of specific individuals, so much as denying a friend request or removing someone to whom status has already been granted. This kind of slap in the Face – book – is not exclusive to Mark Zuckerberg’s creation, but evident in all virtual communities.

The 140 character musings of most Tweeters are open for public consumption; therein the snub lies not in the withholding of viewing privileges but the absence of returning the follow. Such inaction tweets volumes and smarts especially so when persisted despite public mention by a new follower, mention which even when returned still does not guarantee reciprocation.


A novice to the medium, I let him stroll on by the first time he crossed my literal path, on Santa Monica Boulevard one Friday night mere days after I discovered his luxuriant witticisms



My crush had waned from sexual to professional admiration by the aforementioned adventure; but even after a subsequent back ‘n’ forth, his slight endures and the sting lingers. And it’s not just he, but other Tweeps with whom I have been smitten, men and women alike. I wouldn’t quite claim a #trend, but it appears as though the adage does not always prove true. @ and you will not necessarily receive – a follow.

The dis transcended the digital yet again when I bumped into Djimon and his penis posse at West Hollywood’s poppiest danceteria, two weeks back.

“You follow me on Twitter,” Skinny Greathair sighed as he shook my hand, taking a drag from the cigarette in his other.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” I laughed. "But I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. What’s the etiquette, yah
know?”


“I recognize you from your picture.”

Interesting, I should have replied, because you don’t follow me. Instead I settled on, “Huh,” and excused myself back to my own troop of amateur dancers.

“You’re so put off,” my roommate is flabbergasted.

She tends to distort my intentions. I claim umbrage more than outrage. It would be unrealistic, not to mention clinically narcissistic, to expect everyone to have a taste for the tantalizing treat that is my personality. I am aware of that.

Nevertheless – specifically @cknowledged or not, these comtweetriots and their ilk are implying that I, that we aren’t intriguing or insightful or inspiring enough to appear on their homepage, much less list us for rapid access.

Twits will always be a twitter, though, Tweeps. So shake off, but not necessarily remove, the haters and continue to follow the beat, the click, of your own tweet.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Fixin To Thrill.


Alright, I suppose that's a bit inappropriate. Live music is more commonly referred to as a "show." And who's going to smoke a rock at a Little Boots concert?


Ecstasy, sure, but things don't get much harder than that at an electro pop performance. Well, not the drugs. The game of lust, however, is not easily advanced when the participants remain in a mostly static position, only dancing in place, if at all.

I didn't really expect to bring anyone home - with three friends in tow, my coupe was already quite crowded - but I had anticipated more of an opportunity to advance the flirtation rebuilding between myself and a certain boy (yes, this one is a peer) who I knew would be in attendance. Yet, despite the fact that he stood a mere ten feet parallel, despite the fact that I was "fixin to thrill," to "get on the floor," not "make a fuss, just do it," it was the opening act, Dragonette, not I, on whom he appeared fixated.



I did, at least, get the opportunity to say, "Oh! Hey there," affecting surprise as if I just happened to notice him while sidling through the crowd on my way to the bar between sets. And I can be patient, continue to be patient. It's only been a couple months since we were re-introduced, not to mention over a year since we first met and I detailed our encounter on the opening page of a new notebook.

Dear Diary, I all but began.

"I met a really cute boy. His name is [Drake] and he is [also] 2 months fresh to LA...He seemed uninterested most of the night, but on the walk back to our respective cars we had an actual chat about...movies, etc. Seemed like he was taking more of a liking to me. Who knows, though. I feel like...everyone [in West Hollywood] is always looking over your shoulder for something better. Gay - high school."

His level of intrigue remains hazy and WeHo will always be somewhat of a vapid wasteland, but I am no longer fearful of exploring either.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

And then there were eleven.

To some, those who close down a bar appear as pathetic stragglers, sad sacks with game too lame to score while the joint is hoppin' and the booty’s buffet. On the contrary, I infer stamina and discernment.

If you’re still standing after last call, it’s safe to presume you’ll be quite active off your feet until at least four in the morning, but you won’t settle for sharing a bed with anyone of less than equivocal prowess. Confidence notwithstanding, lone departure is always a potential outcome when enacting this approach. Whether instigated by an absence of quality or – as was the case last night – an uneven number of present patrons, one need be prepared to go home alone.

Eleven horny men remained. Two bartenders, one bouncer, five fellow dodgeballers, an unaffiliated civilian couple, and I. Attractive and not yet out of my periphery though the three regular staff members may be, only one fellow still held my fancy and for his momentary affection I vied against another member of the Los Angeles Dodgeball Society. We aren’t due to face off on the court until next week, but there we were at Gym, neck and neck in the pursuit of necking.

“Am I out of the running?” I shortcut to the chase.

“What running? There’s no running,” he feigned ignorance.

“Mmm – HMM,” my own smirk acknowledged the truth apparent in his.

My opponent, his beer pong partner, returned and I moved across the room to challenge the doorboi to a game of pool in an effort towards nonchalance, a game that I swiftly and expectedly lost. The real victory, however, was not yet out of sight. I strolled back across the room, nearing the finish line, the deciding advance.

“So, you want to take me back to your place?” I began the final sprint.

“Whaaat?” His reply seemed to teeter from demure to disbelieving. “I don’t do that.”

"You don't do what?"

"Take boys back to my place.”

"Ever?" Incredulity was now evident in my tone.

"Not like this,” disqualification resounded.

“Well – alright. Good to meet you,” I offered along with a grin and, like the good sport my dad’s years of coaching had taught me to be, a parting hug.

No courteous post-match-up high-five for my adversary in ass, though; but no dirty look, either. I might have given him a slight nod farewell and “well-played,” but of that I can’t be too sure because while my exit was most certainly a proud and measured strut, a respectable retreat, I wa’n’t really wantin’ to stick around to watch him negate the M.O. of our mutually desired mo.

Sure, I didn’t get any – again. But often mere, nonverbal validation is as satisfying as penetration. And despite my sweat tousled mane and athletic attire, I am pleased to say I garnered some of the former, turning more than a couple showered, styled, clean-clothed heads as I ambled up West Hollywood’s main drag.

Plus, I bought a milkshake blended with Junior Mints. FROZEN – Junior Mints. Of a better food item to substitute for sex I cannot think. Except maybe corndogs, phallic form irrelevant. I’m not that starved.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

A Tail of Two Sids.

Rare is sex rivaled, but sometimes all a person really needs is to make out. That's not to say that mouths won't wander, but...

"RESIST THE TEMPTATION," evangelicals, "The Rules" girls, and my mother would likely bellow. "WHAT?" I'd only mouth soundlessly in return, motioning to my ear as though I could not hear their strident warnings. Then I'd return my thumb alongside the other and continue sexliciting.

Like I was last night.

Yeah, yeah, "What happened to having a date first"? That's what he said. Literally.

Well, I wasn't going to give it all up, I made that clear. Not yet, I was also sure to stress; but I certainly needed some. So badly that I choose to forgo an opportunity at post-dodgeball karaoke for the second week in a row, rushing home to rinse off before my turn at the mic. And that, as my friend's drew attention to, is quite the sacrifice. An indication, even, that it was not just the potential to giddy up, but get to know Sid36, as the man has become known, that had me all agog.

"Well, hello,"
I dropped my salutation to an octave low and seductive enough to make Kathleen Turner proud.

"Hi," his tone was casual, "I'm in the driveway."


"Oh. You can't park there,"
I walked out of the bathroom, tightening my towel.

"Standing in the driveway," he clarified.

That's not how I remember him looking, I thought, peeking through the blinds.

"Where do I go now?" His lips matched the words as they came through my earpiece.

Hmm..."Number eight?" My disorientation upswung into my voice.

"Gotcha," he hung up.

And revelation clapped down.

"Oh - my - GAWD,"
I uttered in disbelief, in sync with his footsteps on the stairs. No. Quickly, I slid my phone open, frantically tapping back into my archived messages as I shuffled towards the door. Yes. NO! I've been texting the wrong Sid. I've been texting the wrong Sid for the past two DAYS.

"Freudian slip,"
some might say. I expected him to. Especially when presented with the knowledge of the differentiation between "Sid36" and simply "Sid" in my contacts. "Pity fuck," others will shrug. "I would have," my roommate admitted.

"Here's the thing," I chose the honest route, "This is embarrassing - more so for you than me - but I thought I was inviting over a different Sid."

My cheeks scrunched upwards, guilty and apprehensive, as I expected his face to fall or mine to befall his fist. Shockingly, I was the only one to flinch. He remained impassive and it was only his index finger with which he reached out, tugging gently on the terrycloth knot at my waist. "We can still fool around," he offered.

I shook my head, re-securing the thin cloth between my loins and he. "I'm not saying it's never going to happen, but do you really want it to be like this?"

No, his eyes read. Stoic, but not unsentimental.

"I am a horrible person,"
my forehead flopped against his shoulder.

Yep, he raised his eyebrows.

"I'm such a jerk."

"A cute jerk," he tweaked my chin.

It wasn't the release I had in mind, but I was getting off easy. I sat down on the couch, careful to shroud, not Sharon Stone, mah goodies. "So, off to skewer me to your friends?"

"No, I'm going to the grocery store."

Latex was no longer an option, but I imagine he conducted himself just as gallantly in the supermarket, extending the same respect to Mother Earth by choosing paper over plastic. Let's fucking hope so, because I don't want him RAP-RAP-RAPPING on my door once more, plastic bag in hand, retaliation by suffocation in mind. "How you gonna tell this story, BITCH? Huh? HUH?!"

I would expect this kind of fury had I "[You should have] taken a picture of his face," as one of my friends lamented. But I'm not Freddy Prinze Jr. in "She's All That." There were no malicious machinations behind my textual advances, just a mastery of grammar and punctuation and an inattention to every other detail.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Red light ready.

No, not the district. Well...not quite.

For most Los Angelenos an open city street,
a green at every light you meet,
these two things -
make for a Sunday evening treat.

Unless, of course, you're trying to reignite the back 'n' forth you began earlier that morning. The first contact you've had with the man, yes man, 35+-year-old MAN, whom you met five days prior. An exchange you're as eager to revisit as you are staunchly opposed to texting whilst driving.

What's a brother (to two sisters, relax people) gotta do to get a red light up in HERR? You ain't doin' me no favor, fate - or civil engineers. It's definitely my move...riiight? RIGHT.

He texted, I texted.
I texted, he texted.
I texted, he texted, I texted.
He texted, he texted, I texted, I texted.
He texted, I texted, he sexted, I requested -
a date.


Eesh. What do you, and he, take me for?

Sunday, March 7, 2010

I'm getting off.

Off of the hat rack. Settle down mom. Actually, there's a chance she's unaware of the sexual application of the phrase. Was. Shoot. That's what he said.

Alright, okay. Head wear, head wear, head wear - I always thought it was for people who didn't like their hair. That theory still proves true, but for most it seems to function as a reprieve from particular instances of mane malfunction as opposed to a blanket, or rather, sombrero displeasure. And sometimes, sometimes it's just an accessory.

Fashion forward. Or backwards. To the side, even, if you're really daring - or immersed in rap culture. Either way, such options only brim if the bill is that of a baseball cap. And fit though my physique has become, athletic attire still suits me best when sported from the neck on down.

Not so, however, with hipster duds. For the beanie I am too hot blooded and do not need to "check it (again) and see," but the straw fedora - that's a trademark I can get in on. Especially when scored for just $2.50 in the (apparently now, close-to-a) dollar section at Target.

"Frugalista," ain't no dirty word in my book. Un - uh. Certainly not when donning the apparel practically begs a vaudevillian one-two-flip up the forearm.

Yes, hat head appears to be the only potential drawback of this new addition to my wardrobe; but I'll just keep it on, take their pants off, and give rise to a new innuendo.