Wednesday, June 30, 2010

It's easy when I'm not.

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

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

Maybe.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

S&M & I.

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

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

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

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

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

Only back that thang up.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Marked man.

Check out this hickey.


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

REM - that's a band, right?

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

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Threesome - thing like that.

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

Yes.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

I dance like a stripper.

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

Thursday, June 24, 2010

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

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

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

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

None of the eluded secretions.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Ass your age.

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

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

Sheesh.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

I'm not sorry, did I offend you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, June 21, 2010

Three and a half hours in purgatory.

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

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

I didn't.

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

Not. A single. One.

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

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


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

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Animalistic.

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


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

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

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

Not after lapping up a vodka soda or three.

Friday, June 18, 2010

Freudian cock block.

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



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

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

Shit.

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

Thursday, June 17, 2010

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

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

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Proboobly not for me.

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

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


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

I did.

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

Not any more so than my nipples.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

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

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

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

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

The instant after pleasure.

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

Friday, June 11, 2010

Straights get gay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, June 10, 2010

(Number) two dirty, ain't flirty.

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

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

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Republicans do romp.

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

Monday, June 7, 2010

Open your heart on.

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

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Walk of lame.

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

Save your prayers.

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

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Paychen$e is yo' friend.

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

I like a boi who I KNOW likes me back.

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

Dat ain't no easy task.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, June 4, 2010

Pucker up.

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

Thursday, June 3, 2010

All over my face(book).

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

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

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

Beautiful nightmare.

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

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

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

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

All. Was. Right.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Virgins can't be choosers.

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