Sunday, May 30, 2010


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

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

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

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Bed head.

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

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Gym Jim.

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

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

Not again.

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

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

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Sloppy seconds.

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

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

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

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

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

"Touche," you will hopefully say.

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

MmmHMM. Own it.

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

Monday, May 24, 2010

Bosoms, buddies.

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Kiss and they told you so.

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

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

Expectations – fulfilled.

Friday, May 21, 2010


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

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Sex anthem.

We all need one.

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

Service with(out) a blow job.

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

Bartenders. Baristas. Waiters. Even a waitress.

No one has followed through, yet.

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

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

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Which 'tis nobler?

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

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

Saul - MMM...

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, May 17, 2010

Don't make a peep - show.

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

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

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

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Morning sucks.

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

Not the Hoovering I would have preferred.

Friday, May 14, 2010

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

Vinyl. Backpack.

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

Anyone but yourself.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Shoot me down, already.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Rico Sleeveless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, May 10, 2010

Pretty like a girl.

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

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Watch your language.

You say potato.

I say potAHto.

You say tomato.


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

What? Coulour? With an 'u'?

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

Friday, May 7, 2010

Get that dick.

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Sex amongst society.

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

Pretzels or penis?

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

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

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

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

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

He broke eye contact.

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

Catching my unwavering gaze again, he began to fidget.

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

I paused next to his row.

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

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

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

It – He jumped as I SLAMMED the bin shut.

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


He INHALED audibly, nervously.

I choose the middle seat – one row behind.

Relief WHOOSHED past his lips.

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

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

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

To myself on my 24th birthday.

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

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

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

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

Sunday, May 2, 2010

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

Burger King. Regularly. And with no hesitation. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Post. Haste