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.

Mustache Car Pool.

An eco-friendly innuendo I was looking to test drive into sexual reality after captaining a team in The Burt Reynolds Dodgeball Tourney and Mustache Expo last Sunday. Alas, Silver Lake was the locale and thus hipsters were swarming. I'd have been glad to let those plaid-prone players pile in; but the trouble is, you can never tell whose team they're on.

"Is he gay or straight?" Spending more time on the court and in the game in West Hollywood, I've grown used to not having to ask this question. Rare does it illicit a desired response, but my poppa di'n't raise no quitter.

Not surprisingly, I scored as often as Mustache Car Pool won - 0 - 4 - but I, we, still had fun.

Always play responsibly. No glove(s), no (group sex) love.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Second base shuffle.


We all long for some "Love, Sex, & Magic" in our lives. We're like "Tigers In The Fire," cats in heat, when we first find it. The world is brighter than ever before. "Lights & Music" seem to accompany our every mundane move. Even the quartz in the sidewalk sparkles like "White Diamonds" as we bound along the same path down which we once trudged morosely towards work. We "Can't Stop Feeling" so damn wonderful.

Until they "Bale Out."

It's never us, it's always them; but still - for a while the only jig we can muster is the Thank-Gawd-That-Cheating-Ass-Hat-Didn't-Give-Me-An-"STD Dance." Yet, no matter how irreparably "Damaged" we may believe our psyches to be, try to "Stand Back" for a moment. Upon introspection we realize they were just a compliment, not the key to a fulfilling existence. We don't need anyone else. We just want someone to want to be there for us and want us to be there for them at those times in this rich life of ours when we really do have to ask for help.

"Mony Mony!" They shout as soon as they see how our vivacity has not only endured, but intensified.

Too bad, fool. "Shut Up And Let Me Go." It's our turn to issue the dismissal.

What confidence this self-respect imbues. From "Dusk Till Dawn," never again will anyone take away the knowledge that we got it going on. No one can make us feel "Bad" without our permission. They're sure to "Hypnotize" some other unsuspecting peer, but we know just "Any Love" won't do.

It might be years before we meet someone with whom we will share an intrinsic bond. We can try to force it, "COME ON! Please. Now, while "I'm In Miami Bitch," but the Universe shan't be coerced. Ain't nothin' we can do but enjoy a whole lot of "Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'" in the meantime.

Let us commence by dancing ourselves to second base.

Monday, April 26, 2010

So fresh, so kind of clean.

You know you're a closet scrub when a business card from the bar you were at on Friday falls out of the back pocket of your jeans at work on Monday. WHAT?! I totally washed these pants...a couple weeks ago.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

Hip to be niche.

There is a place east of Vine
where it’s hard to imagine the denizens spending time
doing dishes
washing their
so hip are they
so inhumanely chic
they can barely bring themselves to begin to
Not to us who prefer a crisper jean
who sometimes buy clothes on whom
are the first they’ve been seen
intentionally ripped
between their world and
I’d find myself to be
if I weren’t at
with everything

Thursday, April 22, 2010

To die(t) for.

Some people like to drown themselves in layers when they’re feeling fat. Not me. I writhe into a Chinese finger trap of a tank top and run my roll to the gym. Perceived or not, forcing my faults on display serves as motivation to minimize and ultimately eradicate.

“That is the gayest thing you have ever said,” my friend Ande declared upon hearing my masochistic coping method.

Perhaps. But I feel this approach transcends sexuality. This could be why we sometimes see absurdly obese women wearing baby Ts or tube tops far too tiny to even begin to contain their own baker's dozen. Maybe we've had it all wrong. They're not oblivious or unhygienic or suffering from reverse body dysmorphic disorder, after all. These Quarter Ton-ers should no longer be objects of disgust, but beacons of inspiration.

The one's establishing residence at Burger King - not so much. Extrapolated data aside, though, it’s not about comparing the jiggle of your belly to that of another. However hefty the poundage from which it need be excavated, there's a prime physique inside every one of us. This ideal shape varies from person to person; but wherever we are in the process of achieving our fitness destiny, even those of us who will never obtain rock hard abs are entitled to concrete confidence.

If my roommate has a mantra, it's that. And it was originally sticky tacked to the kitchen quote wall when we looked like this:

Barr(bell)ing a negative self-image from dampening our spirits - or our buzz as is apparent above - can be as rough as an actual work out. It's always worth the effort, though. More rewarding than any physical activity.

Whenever I look at that picture I smile at the excess of joy on my face, not flub on my frame. In fact, I'm more grateful to be alive than to have that scarf disguising my second chin. We were captured making light of our fear, but at the time odds were in favor of us flying through the windshield over climbing out of the back seat.

I'd suggest not getting into a safety belt-less car. Especially not one with a drunk, meth addicted near-midget behind the wheel. Nothing against little people, but the fact that her feet barely reached the pedals didn't aid our situation any.

As to our chances of survival, confidence was low; but at least we wouldn't have asked, "Does this stretcher make me look hippy?" Un - uh, (crazy) girl (I had just met). Because DAMN - did we think we looked to die for.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Hope unmasked.

"Kick-Ass," Hollywood's latest comic book adaptation, is just that - kick-ass. It is not the Tarantino-esque violence, however, that most warrants the hyphenated adjective. It's not the crisp cinematography nor the swift, yet suspenseful pace of the plot, either. No, what struck me the deepest in this stunning work of cinema is the message of hope.

He's the Obama of superheroes, Dave Lizewski. A combat novice with no semblance of magical powers. Yet, the tragically natural omnipresence of human cruelty and injustice is enough to prompt this ordinary New York City high school student to strive for change by transforming himself into a wet suited crime fighter.

If only we could all be so brave. Los Angeles - or the "Gang Capital of the Nation," as Wikipedia describes our city - could certainly use a Kick-Ass. Fear of a Hit-Girl might even prompt the Crips and Bloods to ban together. Alas, the Big Daddies already patrolling the streets at night are only in search of sexual deviants, those who freely rob themselves of their own dignity in exchange for a glimpse of a designer lifestyle.

I can almost certainly say I'd never sign on as some older gent's boi toi; but I'd be more inclined to don a cape and pose for tourist shots on Hollywood Boulevard than administer vigilante justice. That's not to say I have gone uninspired. "Kick-Ass" reminds us that much of what we thought to be impossible is really just out of reach. And if relatively unimpressive teenage nerd Dave Lizewski can all but free his hometown from the oppressive clutches of organized crime, I can coax Aaron Johnson, the actor who portrays him, into falling in love with non-famous me.

Alright, okay - according to his IMDb profile he's actually engaged and expecting a child with Sam Taylor-Wood who directed him in the upcoming John Lennon biopic, "Nowhere Boy." Shame she got there first. I've only got three years on him, but 24 years her junior, he clearly likes 'em older. And female, I suppose. Shoot. There is that, too.

Regardless, like his most recent namesake character, I will not be deterred. Aaron Johnson might be straight and spoken for, but the thrill of my momentary crush wasn't really about him. Actually, a fame fetishist though I may appear to be, it's not about securing the affections of any well known figure.

Principles aside, it's exciting to think that my chances of engaging in an Eiffel Tower with two closeted male sex symbols are exponentially higher than any other gay not living in Los Angeles. The fact that this city is home to such a broad spectrum of humanity, however, that the population amongst which we may encounter love is so diverse - that is what is most titillating. That is kick-ass.

Friday, April 16, 2010

You're so lame.

You bet this blog post is about you, vanity plate owners.

Forty-nine to $98.00, according to the CAlifornia Department of Motor Vehicles, is quite a price to inform the rest of us what an asshole you are. "EEZ2BME," eh? Not if you lose your job and default on payments for that luxury SUV of yours.


Thursday, April 15, 2010

Like, OMG! Lemme set you up - for failure.

Regardless of parenting style, there are a few bits of advice drilled into all children of the Western world. Look both ways before you cross the street. Don't get into the car with a stranger. And never assume - it makes an ass out of you and me.

Until puberty, my mother's delivery of the latter never ceased to send my mouth agape. "Oh!" I'd gasp. "She said - ass!"

For most, this anal synonym is second only to "damn" as the least shocking profanity. But this was coming from the woman who condemned the use of "Shut up," "fart," and "pissed off." She might as well have erupted with a ferociously spit propelled "FFFUCK." The impact was certainly equivocal.

Aside from getting into bed with practical strangers, I've retained the aforementioned morsels of wis(e ass)dom. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for everyone. More unfortunately, they rarely get hit by a van or pulled into the back of one before inconveniencing the rest of our (social) lives with their ignorance.

"You're single?" my friend Carla's friend's friend from high school asked upon our introduction at Booby Trap, the Wednesday night lesbian dance party. "You have to meet my friend Wyn who's coming later."

"Oh yeah? What's he like?"

"He's really cute. Blond hair. Very into style," She paused, inhaling excitedly. "He can be kind of judgmental about it, but I think you'll like him."

"Alright. We'll see what happens. No pressure," I held my open palms aloft, quickly disclaiming the impending set up. "If we like each other, we like each other. If we don't, we don't."

We didn't. Well - I didn't.

Although fashionHEstas aren't my usual (man)bag, I would have thoroughly enjoyed both conversing and copulating with a dandy like Mark from "Ugly Betty." Instead, in walked Manny-Kate Olsen. While I've been known to romp with fellow twinks, this one made me look like a bear in comparison. Boner kill. The distaste women feel towards being with men whose thighs are dwarfed by their own has been elucidated.

Polite but pointed, I expressed my disinterest. My friend Carla's friend's friend, however, didn't seem to catch the drift. A rather shocking oversight, as it was strong enough to blow the waif back out the door.

"So?" She implored after two hours of distancing myself from Wyn on the dance floor. "Do you like him?"

"What?" I was incredulous. "No."

"Why?" Suddenly as defensive as she was dense.

"He's just not my type," I shrugged along to the beat.

"Why?" The thickness was impenetrable.

"Just because we're both gay -" I leaned in, continuing to dance as I slowed my speech. "Doesn't mean we're automatically attracted to each other."

"Ugh." She scoffed, her face puckering sourly. "I know that."

"Do you?" I gladly patronized.

She didn't.

More perplexing than frustrating, I don't begrudge her. Nor do I really wish abduction or vehicular pulverization upon her. Actually, if anyone should hold any beef, it's Wyn. She kept his hopes aloft all evening.

Personally, I'm more worried about his blood sugar. He needs a burger if he needs meat. I know a great place. In fact, I even know a boy who might love to take him there.

We're no longer friends, this $800 velvet Ralph Lauren slipper wearing fop and I. We weren't ever more than acquaintances, really. Even then, it was association by default. But still - while I don't ever want to see him again, I think Wyn might like the lanky, luxury lapping lout a whole lot.

I could be wrong. Perhaps. But unlike an assumption, a notion is worth the risk. Especially one with the potential to prompt an exchange of ass between he and he.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

The (un)fairest.

Sometimes you see a person so beautiful you can hardly believe they don't get paid to look that way. While I try to resist, I kind of, sort of, can't help but HATE those people. Unless, of course, they’re Republican radicals with a religious agenda.

In that case - as a compassionate, “real American,” I am Obamaligated to despise them.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

And then there were none.

Last night the Beautiful Dudes defeated the Blasphemous Ballers in the West Hollywood Dodgeball league finals. The decimation (8 to 2) took place at the Staples Center and Ke$ha appeared as a publicity garnering addition to the losing team. Los Angeles being the fantastical adult playground that it is, one would expect no less. Thus, it was only missing an opportunity to cavort amongst all those tank-topped titillators for which I am most "Tik Tok"ed off at myself.

It'll be a few months before I get another chance to weRRRk this crowd as a whole. Arduous though this thought would have been at the start of the season, I've since realized that patience is, in fact, a virtue. Especially when striving to secure some quality cock. And forget the gold, rooster-shaped trophy appropriately awarded to the WeHo champions. This Power Bottom only accepts multi-platinum-worthy penis.

It is a result of these standards that I didn't fuck one fellow all season. Not a teammate. Not a league mate. No one on the roster joined the ranks of my randy repertoire.

The Billion $ Boi Toi kissed me on the mouth in front of everyone at Gym. Then he mashed his penis up against the outside of the window for all to see. Unfortunately, he was otherwise engaged for the remainder of the season. I didn't get another glimpse of his head, much less his face.

Sid36 sidled into my schedule via a dodgeball affiliation, but he was not a participant himself. Although we made it to three and a half dates, he never did go Balls Deep as one of the teams is actually called. The closest anyone came to coming was Simply Sid. Y'all remember how that went - or rather, didn't - go down.

Despite the fact that I've yet to bed, floor, kitchen table, backseat, or even alley anyone after adult recess, the permission to perspire in public, to mingle all mussed up, is what I'm going to miss most during our interlude. "This is what I'll look like if you take me home," it says. The short term equivalent of meeting your lover's parents. A reliable prediction as to how marvelously or miserably your investment will fair over the next 30 years. Shame it's such a rare opportunity.

Like a good book, however, sometimes it's best to disregard the exterior. Often much of the fun is in figuring out what's inside the cover, as tattered or ornate though it may be. And as Agatha Christie knew how to spin a suspenseful yarn, an amorous adventurer need also be a master of mystery.

So come on boiz. Get your name on the waiting list. Check me out. Perhaps you won't want to flip (through) me twice; but this is most certainly a tail with which you want to curl up in bed.

Or on the floor. The kitchen table. Your backseat...

Monday, April 12, 2010


Waking up in a location other than my bed, a 10:30 a.m. hike no longer seemed as desirable a start to my Sunday. I could cancel, I thought, glancing over at the sweet, but regrettable treat I’d indulged in the night before. There’s still 30 minutes till we’re supposed to meet. Maybe he hasn’t left yet.

No, no. Get up JJ. Get going.

Oh, al -

You’ve been so good all weekend, not breaking a single plan.

ALRIGHT! Okay. Eesh.

I ceased bickering with myself, but continued to grumble audibly as I climbed to my feet. Trying this whole honoring my commitments thing was tough. Seemingly less so, however, following a subsequent comparison of my own evening to that of my friend Royal.

The empty box of Junior Mints next to which I awoke after passing out on my chouch further propelled me towards Runyon Canyon. Memory of the accompanying blueberry waffles and heaps of honey-roasted peanuts prompted an increase in the speed of my walk. Yet, after an impromptu overnight at the Hollywood Roosevelt, Royal’s wanting to stay until check out to room service the Latin visitor at his down comforter clad bedside would have been more than understandable.

The only other gay I’d met that weekend looked like the type to want to take me home, tie me up, and murder me after three years of torture and captivity. Meanwhile, Royal had been getting cabeza under the smog-smothered stars, on the roof of a parking structure. And that was just his icing on the other guy’s face. He’d spent the previous night dancing and bumping taste buds with a completely different dude.

“I would have made you proud,” he said.

He did. Impressed and not the least bit jealous. I’m always happy to see a friend succeed, especially when they attribute much of that progress to me. If I’m exceptionally drawn to someone, I make my move. If I’m only mildly intrigued, I let them come to me. Inspired by my mental manhandling methods, Royal put both to use.

The essence of this enlightened approach to the romantic aspect of my personal life is that ass is just that, a facet.

“Sex is overrated and constantly hyped far beyond what it can deliver.” 69-year-old screen siren Raquel Welch said when discussing her memoir “Raquel: Beyond The Cleavage” in a recent interview on “Oprah.” “If you’re lucky, it occurs with some regularity, but it’s not the whole enchilada.”

If I like the waiter, it ain’t often I say no to the meat. That said, I’m equally content enjoying an evening with friends before going home and treating myself to dessert. And at least then the quality of service is always guaranteed.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Mommie Dirtiest.

It’s been three years, eight months, and 11 days since I announced my release from the prison of feigned heterosexuality. While I’ve long been proud and assertive of my identity, I haven’t exactly been loud about my love life as far as my parents are concerned. In fact, until recently I would do everything to keep the conversation away from anything related to my being gay.

I’d never specify my destination when going out in West Hollywood. I always referred to dates as “new friends” and rarely mentioned the sexuality of those involved in my burgeoning platonic relationships. When they first came to visit me in Los Angeles, my roommate was all but banned from opening her mouth around “Mr. and Mrs. Wienkers.” Knowing my life more intimately than anyone has before, her mere presence was a threat to the delicate balance of our family dialogue.

“You’re so Republican around your parents,” Kara proclaimed.

Not politically, of course. And not in the having sex with gay prostitutes way either. No, she meant it in the uptight sense of the slur.

You’d imagine that’s another reason she wasn’t invited out to dinner at the Olive Garden when my mom and middle sister came to visit this past January; but, no. It was just our trekking down to San Diego while she was stuck at work that kept her away. Because while Kara sure loves that bottomless salad and breadsticks combo, she could have run her mouth as readily as I’ve known her to stuff it.

Having attended orientation for the West Hollywood dodgeball league earlier that same week, the excitement of hurling balls at and alongside a hundred plus gay and tank-topped men was too exciting not to share. Even with my mother. And subsequently, in heading further down both of those avenues I’ve realized I hadn’t known what I was missing. Discussing my increasingly robust gay social life with my parents is almost as entertaining as living it.

“How did you know he was gay?” My mom asked of the boy responsible for causing the collision between he and my friend Jeb on Santa Monica Boulevard last month.

“We just knew.”

“That’s a little like stereotyping – isn’t it?” I could hear the smirk in her voice. The one that creeps in every time she’s about to follow up with some variation of “Aren’t you liberals…”

“No. He’s gay.”

“How is it that you can say that and I can’t?”

“Because you’re not gay. It’s called gaydar,” I introduced her to the term. “We can just tell. Although, Jeb’s not usually perceived as being gay, so our friend Kingsley said this guy was probably relieved to see me pop my head out of the car.”

“That’s funny that he was rear ended by another gay boy,” the smirk wiggled back in as she dropped an unprecedented double entendre.

“The real irony,” I replied as my guffaw eventually began to subside, “is that Jeb’s normally the one who would be doing the rear ending.”


It’s a start. Bawdier than most Midwestern Baby Boomers would even deign. Yet, while she might try workin’ blue, she still votes red.

Who knows, though. Today, anal sex humor. Tomorrow, Obama 2012.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Surprise! You're not friends.

Not if your supposed acquaintance's boyfriend doesn't know to invite you to the birthday party he's been organizing for his girlfriend. The plans may be covert, but the statement is obvious. Hope you didn't buy her a present.

Friday, April 9, 2010

Attn: art,

I am suffering (from a lack of sleep) for you.

Also, I now understand why Liz Lemon wakes up with lettuce in her hair and can't muster much more than a stroll on her tread mill in the morning.

I like weekday sex, though. And actual exercise helps to keep the words coming. Speaking of - a climax tends to be even more inspirational. Liz should really try stuffing her hoo hah rather than her face. With some Jack Donaghy, perhaps.

I'd watch that.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Oh - oh - OH - verheard.

Any sex partner of my roommate or I need never worry about reigning in their roar when fucking in our house. We're not voyeurs or exhibitionists. No. We're not so deprived

that we must propel ourselves to the brink in sync with the sounds of the other on another. Gawd. It is 2010. We do have the Internet. As well as an understanding.

Hit it if you can get it.

Self-sacrificing though we may be, this benevolence does not extend unto those outside of our apartment. The human neighbors, sure. That's funny. The ever-expanding clowder of alley cats mounting each other between our walk up and the matching complex? Not so much.

Sometimes it's jealousy. Mostly it's discomfort. Especially if their chorus screeches through the window while I'm harmonizing with myself.

I mean, HELLOOO. I'm a gay man. To us, pussy is supposed to be rev - oh - oh - OH - lting.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

"I'm sure you'll understand my point of view."

Easter may have been Sunday, but it seems as though Jesus ain't the only one rising from the dead this month. Today the news blog "twirlit" has reported that despite supposedly drowning during a fishing trip near San Pedro, CAlifornia five years ago, Olivia Newton-John's former boyfriend Patrick McDermott appears to be alive and working in Mexico. No comment from Newton-John, but while they may have been "hopelessly devoted to" each other for nine years, she'll be celebrating her second wedding anniversary with second husband John Easterling this July.

SO - not like you care or anything, Patrick Kim - as you've reverted back to your given surname - but she's moved on. She will not be begging, "Please Mr. Please." You are no longer "The One That [She] Want"s. Understand? Do you need me to pun any more song titles?

Stay hidden, bitch. Stay down there and "live [your] life in peace and [the] new place[,] both physically and mentally[,]" that you've found for yourself. She gets it. We get it. "Dateline"-employed private investigator Philip Klein gets it.

Now quit listening, because I gotta say - of course this is sure to sting a bit. Danny Zuko may have hurt Sandy Olsson's frilly feelings when he thought he was as too cool for their "Summer Loving" as he was for Rydell High School, but faking your death instead of facing your girlfriend and breaking up with her like a decent, honest human being is beyond selfish. On that note:

ATTN: future lovers,

If you even THINK about taking a page out of his logbook, I'll kill you my damn self. We don't even need to go all the way west to the Santa Monica Pier. I have a bathtub.

Back to O N-J, the real zinger is that both "twirlit" and "Pop Eater" cited her popular relevance as "Grease." That was just the beginning, fools. "Physical" was released three years later and went double platinum. Wikipedia says the title track was the biggest song of the decade. For Gawd's sake, in 2008 Billboard Hot 100 ranked it No. 6 among all songs charted in their 50 year history.

For a site sporting the tag line "what women really want," you'd think "twirlit" would show a feminine icon some love. In her time of need, at least. Ladies - ladies, ladies. Don't MAKE me "get physical." You know I got it in me.

And my costume closet.

Just kidding. I had to leave that wig behind when I moved to Los Angeles. BUT - my allegiance is forever "Big and Strong." That ain't no "Rumour." Nuh-uh. And if you don't believe me, well, you can "Get Out." Just, just GET OUT!

Monday, April 5, 2010

Women v. Women.

A North Carolina woman successfully sued her husband’s mistress for $9 million dollars last month, "Good Morning America" reports. Yes, the mistress, not the man she married and is now in the process of divorcing. Despite Allan Shackelford’s claims on a local (Greensboro) news site that their “marriage did not break up because of Anne Lundquist…it ended because of problems [the Shackelfords] created for themselves,” Cynthia Shackelford continues to claim it is the other woman who is most responsible for the dissolution of their 32-year union and a jury decided in her favor, upholding an alienation of affection law dating back to the 19th century.

While this is a preposterous tort and one that has worked in the favor of both scorned husbands and wives in the past, the most despicable action this case brings to light is not the suit itself or even the adultery, but the continued demonizing of one woman by another. Sure, Lundquist was shtupping Shackelford’s husband, but she didn’t rape him. He did her willing, regularly, and – as he also told his local media outlet – she wasn't the first. This was just the latest in a number of affairs he had entered into over the past three decades.

That’s, “a shock to me,” the not-yet-ex-Mrs. Shackelford told GMA. Possibly, not plausibly, but she’s heard it now and STILL she chooses to blame the interloping female.

Only six other states recognize the obsolete legislation on which this trial was based, but women the world over have long been placing the blame for their failed relationships on any outside party whose ensuing tenure as significant other overlaps the close of their own. Take some personal responsibility, ladies. Hold your men, your exes, to theirs. Perhaps then, through a greater respect for self and sisterhood, there’ll be no need to seek validation and intimacy in another woman's companion, in any undeserving human.

Sunday, April 4, 2010


There was a point, not long ago, when I feared creativity would only waft across my path via the accompaniment of an initially green and vaporous muse.

Can I be funny SOBER? I thought when I first began sitting in on a weekly entertainment podcast on E! Online. That’s a lot of pressure.

It was, at first, but recording at the end of my workday, I had no other choice. And now, even when sitting down at my home computer, it’s nothing but an excuse to procrastinate, to eat, sleep, and/or masturbate. Sexy Tumblrs aren’t helping, either.

More like peer run pornography encompassing all manner of niches. Although, I’m sure there’s at least seven dedicated to actual sexy tumblers. I can’t quite say, however, as it’s the swimmers that garner most of my attention during and in between the Summer Games.

No go. More unfortunately, for my productivity, even with the absence of a regular increase in blood pressure to my eyeballs, sometimes a surge in red cell flow in the opposite direction is enough to take my cursor on a Safari and free one hand to roam.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

ATTN: mom,

I just got back from the strip club Crazy Girls.

ATTN: dad, there were ladies there.

ATTN: all, confused?

(Free, gloved) love, mismatched bras and panties, and $3.00 rail drinks,

JJ Wienkers

Friday, April 2, 2010

Hindsight, foreskin.

Two-time Olympic gold medal winning downhill skier Picabo Street's parents allowed her to name herself. That seemed to be just about the most awesome thing EVER when I was in elementary school, reading Sports Illustrated for Kids.

I feel as though JJ suits me well and I don’t begrudge my father for forcing a subscription to SI Kids on me, but one thing about which I do have beef with my parents is the slicing of my meat soon after birth.

The American Academy of Pediatrics (AAP) does not recommend routine circumcision nor does the Christian faith encourage it. Unfortunately, the AAP didn’t release this conclusion until 1999, when I was 13-years-old. Still, while I’m sure my parents had my best interests at heart, they certainly weren’t thinking about my future hard on.

Like OMG, gross! Parents and sex in the same conversation? That’s like totes disgusting. Riiight?


Luckily for me, I’m gay and thus still get to experience the joys of foreskin. And lemme tell YOU - that is always a treasure at the end of the trail. But what about my straight brethren? The pleasure of the hood is lost on them forever. Someone needs to take a stand, stop the snipping, and get all future parents thinking a head.

After all, the American dream is about providing our children with what we didn’t have, guiding them towards the best (sex) life we can.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

April Fool's DATE.

It's been nearly two weeks since the hipster Adonis sent his friend across the dance floor to solicit an increased proximity to my rhythmic gyrations. This morning, though, it looked as though we'd finally get a chance to go on a date. That, and follow through on everything I'd already told him I wanted to do once he took his shirt off again.

Around 4:00 he offered to pick me up at 6:30. Early dinner, more time for dessert. We are both working boiz.

An hour or so later I was still at my desk and had to ask for a bit more time. That was fine with him. His band mates were trying to guilt him into a spontaneous practice session, anyway. Randy and rarin' though we both were, 8:00 seemed like a reasonablly tolerable compromise.

"Perfect! See you then,"
I sent a conclusive text and smiled, giddy with the anticipation of (almost, but, let's be real) certain sex.

My phone began to buzz. It was him. Again. Already. Huh.

"Heeey?" Genial, but evident confusion in my voice.

"April Fool's Date!" He exclaimed. "I have a boyfriend."

Alright, okay. It didn't go quite like that. But the cock-deflating essence is there. At least he didn't cackle. Although, maniacal laughter might have been preferable to, "We could just be friends..." And surely less manipulative than "...maybe romance could come later."

"Ah, well," you're probably thinking. "At least he gave it a shot."

I did. I am. I'm home now and he just called to say he's exiting off of the 101. Might as well enjoy a good meal. Plus, he did say his boyfriend had been a "huge asshole" to him and he isn't "sure what's going on with that." So...dessert isn't completely off the menu either.