Adventures In Gay Dating

Secrets

2012-01-25T21:03:00.002-05:00

I hate it when people “force” me to reveal something about myself I’m not ready to share.

Jeff, a local guy, continually emails me and wants to know why I won’t go out with him since we have so much in common. I usually just ignore his emails and go on my way. But this morning, his email seemed particularly pleading and that in turn started making me feel guilty, so I called him and told him the truth:

Jeff: “What’s wrong with me? Why won’t you go out with me?”

Me: “If you’ll remember back about a year ago, we first exchanged emails and even talked on the phone three times. Two of those times, you were drunk. That one time it was only 9 a.m. and you confided in me that you were having beer for your breakfast, remember?”

Jeff: “(laughing) Yeah, I remember that!”

Me: “I’m a recovering alcoholic and I’m not at the point where I can hang around people that drink… and not be bothered…I hope you can understand that.”

Jeff: “Really? You couldn’t have been that bad.”

Me: “Oh, I was…really bad.”

Jeff soon wanted to get off the phone but not before extending an invitation to come over and “get-fucked-real-good”.

He promised to put the booze away too!

(girlish squeal) And they say chivalry is dead!

Whatever.

This has got to thinking about my amending my “type”.

Btw…

I hate it when people ask me what my type is. I absolutely never know what to say when asked.

“What kind of guys do you like, Ken ?”

Me- “Uhhhh…cute ?”

Me- “You know, nice.”

Me- “Well, he has to be gay, first of all...”

I guess now I should say, “A nice, gay non-drinker that’s cute and oh yeah, a non-smoker too.”

I know, I know…

When I was drinking, I couldn’t stand being around people that got all preachy about drinking and smoking.

When I went into AA, I had to stop smoking because it was tied in so closely with my drinking. I was one of those people that might smoke one cigarette a day when they’re sober but could easily smoke an entire pack during happy hour if they go out with friends.

When you’re in recovery, you can’t really be around people that are doing things that unhealthy for you and your disease.

I mean, I wouldn’t refuse to date a guy that had a glass of wine or two at dinner sometimes, but I probably would not ever date a smoker again, simply because I hate the smell now and I’d be very tempted to pick it up again.

Addiction is chronic.

You learn to live with it and control it but never truly goes away.

Adventures In Gay Dating Asks:

2012-01-17T23:00:00.000-05:00

Why does the Goodwill store always smell like unwashed ass ?

Glass Houses

2012-01-10T14:18:00.005-05:00

Don’t do hate it when you end up being the very thing you hate in others?

I found out that I’m a fickle queen.

For those of you that know me or know my blog, you know that I’ve been known to moan a time or two about being single and the lack of male attention.

I recently met a nice, attractive guy from a nearby town that showered me with (constant) attention.

I hated it. I felt smothered. I couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

I tired to pinpoint just what the problem was and the only thing I could come up with were his lack of conversational skills.

In other words, he was boring and didn’t talk very much.

Our telephone conversations usually went something like this:

Me- “Hi darling, how was your day?”

Him- “Okay.”

Me- “So, what did you do today?”

Him- “Nothing.”

Me- “Tell me something interesting then…”

Him- “What do you want me to say?”

Me- “What are we doing Friday night?”

Him- “I don’t know, what do you want to do?”

Ugggh!

I hate, hate, hate people that make me do all the talking. When I get on the phone with a guy and he’s just answering me with yes/no and there’s those long, uncomfortable silences, I tend to want to fill up all those conversational gaps and end up chattering like a chipmunk on crack.

Not pretty.

So, if any of you any out there interested are interested in me, you better be about to talk and hold a conversation or you’re gonna miss out of some of the best nookie (in my humble opinion) in North Carolina.

Last Wednesday, a coworker noticed me being unusually quiet and asked if everything was okay. I confided that I’d had a disappointing date the evening before and was still a little upset with myself. I had gone out to have coffee with another guy I’d just met online.

This guy was one of those rugged, uber masculine gays that were obsessed with being “straight-acting” and being able to pass for heterosexual.

He wore his rejection of all things gay like a badge of honor and I wasn't impressed.

He kept pumping me to see if I was into "guy" things.

Did I like football?

Did I like to play golf?

Did I like camping?

Did I like heavy metal? (He couldn't stand "faggy" music like Lady GaGa)

The finally nail in the coffin for me was this:

He was fat.

He must have been about 5’10” and weighed a good 275.

Here you might ask, "Didn't you see a picture of him first ?"

Or

"Well, what did his stats say in his online profile ?"

Yes, I did see a pic first. A tightly-cropped face pic (hear the warning bells?) and he doesn't have the usual pudgy face that most overweight people have.

His stats stated that he had a beefy, football player's build. That, I liked. I'm a small guy and I like guys that are bigger that me.

Football player's build, my ass !

I like to think that I’m evolved enough to be able to see past outward, physical appearances and being able to concentrate on the beauty that lies within, but somehow, I just couldn’t seem to manage it this time.

I’m ashamed that my mental litmus test for datability didn’t disqualify him based on his self-hating, “straight-acting”, overly macho personality but instead it was his sheer corpulence that caused my brain screamed out a resounding “Hell-Fuckin’-No !”

The next day I felt horrible.

I mean, I know I’m no prize. Who am I to discriminate against him?

My coworker commented that I was certainly allowed to feel the way I did and that I shouldn’t feel guilty.

But...

I hate being a dickhead.

Big Floppy Balls

2012-01-04T11:18:00.000-05:00

This morning when I woke up I was sleeping on my stomach. WTF ! I’m a back sleeper. I got up and fumbled to the coffee maker, poured myself a mug and then headed back to the bedroom. Midway, the sharpest pain I’ve ever felt coursed through my balls, causing me instantly to cringe and sling coffee everywhere. Great ! For the next twenty minutes, the pains continued, starting in my balls and shooting into the pit of my stomach causing my to break out in a cold sweat. I could just see me going to the ER and for “ball pain”. Can we say embarrassing?

I started praying fast, “Dear Jesus, you know I have a lot on my plate already… Please, please take this ball pain from me, okay?”

The pain stopped. All I can think of is that I must have royally smashed my balls in my sleep when I rolled over on my stomach.

Oh boy, can’t wait to see how the rest of my day plays out.

Adventures In Gay Dating Asks:

2012-01-02T11:54:00.000-05:00

"Would you go out with a guy if you found out his screen name was Dildo Man?"

Adventures In Gay Dating Says:

2011-12-30T11:43:00.000-05:00

"I don't live and breathe dick like some gay guys."

Dying On 95

2011-12-11T22:04:00.008-05:00

When I lived in DC it was customary for me to ride the metro into downtown to meet Michael and the gang for happy hour several times a week. We’d start the evening at JR’s and usually finish up the night at Omega tucked away in our little corner table. Usually by that late hour Michael was misty-eyed, drunk and well into his normal tirade about the unfairness of his stalled love life. His D & D obsessed, ex-boyfriend had run away to marry some like-minded guy from Baltimore in a gay elfin ceremony on Halloween night the previous year. No, I'm not kidding.

We would make all the expected soothing, sympathetic noises in our throats but at the same time trying to do or say nothing to encourage him to go on with the story that we’d all lived through a million times since the actual event.

“Count it as a blessing, Michael. I mean for God’s sake, you found a sex video of him and the little elf doing the nasty and saved on the desktop of household PC in file labeled Pern Porn. I mean, how stupid is that? On the household PC, the same one you guys used to pay bills and cruising for 3rds on Manhunt when you were too tired to top his bottomless butt hole. Damn ! What a ding dong."

“I know, I’m so screwed. What can I do?” He'd say and put his head down on the table and cry.

Here in lies the problem; Michael was black Irish from Boston and a very devout Roman Catholic. Though he and the Rob had never had a commitment ceremony performed, he considered them “married”. For him to date other guys and give up on the thought of Rob he’d have to mentally divorce him and that to him was a HUGE sin. If I dared to say anything to him about it, he more or less would tell me that I was a stupid Southern Baptist and I didn’t understand the Catholic mindset. Michael could be quite vicious when he’s drunk but little did I know how just how vicious and crazy he could get until later on that night.

When we left Omega around midnight, he started heading toward the little side street he usually parked on instead of heading with me to the metro. Michael was extremely drunk and determined to drive home. We got into a huge fight right there on the street. It was ugly. I begged and pleaded with him to take the metro home with me instead of driving but he wouldn't hear of it, swearing that someone would break into his car (and they probably would have, to be honest). Finally thinking he’d come up with a good idea, he suggested I drive us home. I refused because I was quite intoxicated too.

Michael sighed heavily and jumped in the car, revved the motor harshly and told me if I didn't get in, he’d lock me out of the apartment and I’d have nowhere to go when I finally did make it back to Arlington via the DC metro. I believed him and and I sure as hell didn't want to sleep on the street, so I got in and muttered a brief prayer to God.

Wordlessly, he immediately plunged into traffic on 95 and floored it. I grabbed on of the overhead “Oh Shit” straps and started begging him to slow down as he started swerved through the traffic. We were going 110 and the car engine was screaming from the strain because Michael was still in forth gear.

“Michael, slow-the-fuck-down! You’re going to kill us!”

“No biggie, Ken. You’ve got AIDS and no one will ever love me. What have we got to live for? We’re a couple of major losers. No one would ever miss us.”

“You can’t decide for me about when I die. If you want to kill yourself, fine. Let me da fuck of this car! And I-Don’t-Have-AIDS! I’m HIV positive.”

Michael gave me one of those little “whatever” flips of the hand and kept driving.

Luckily the Crystal City exit was coming up and he decided to slow down so he wouldn’t miss it. As soon as we actually got on the exit, I opened the door and bailed out.

I know, I know, stupid.

But I had the fight or flight thing going on, I couldn’t fight him so I was going to get my ass out of that car somehow, never mind that I might have broken my neck in the process.

When my feet hit the curb, I cut a head-over-heels flip and landed in some azalea bushes the city had planted to pretty up the exits. Michael stopped the car for a brief moment and flung his cigarette out the window before speeding off into the night. We only lived two blocks away from the exit so I took my time detangling myself and climbing out of the bushes. Thank God, no one had witnessed this event and called the police. I could have just seen me trying to explain it.

"Well, officer, my roommate and best friend was really drunk and feeling sorry for himself and tried to kill us tonight because the love of his life married a gay elf and because I'm no more than a walking AIDS ribbon to him. That's why I jumped out of a moving vehicle."

"No, officer, I haven't been smoking crack. I am a quite drunk though."

"Never mind where I live and no, I don't want to press charges. I have to live with him, you know..."

I was in no hurry to get back to our penthouse on South Eades Street and for one, long moment I hoped that Michael was indeed so drunk that he’d drive off the top level of our parking garage and plunge to a gruesome death. But of course, I immediately felt ashamed of myself. I’m a nice Southern Baptist boy and I try not to let my heart fill up with hate. But for a harsh moment, I wanted him to die, seriously.

When I got home and quietly let myself in, my luck held out and Michael was already locked away in his bedroom. Whew. I let out a breath and didn't know I was holding and allowed myself to relax slightly. I knew a blow-out was coming but I so wasn’t in the mood to have it out with Michael then and there.

I was tired, bone tired. Nothing to do but go to bed and hope tomorrow will be better. I climbed in bed in my boxers and turned out the light, willing my mind to slow down but it wasn’t working. I was pondering taking a Ambien when I heard a faint, hesitant knock on my door.

“Ken?”

Shit, shit, shit.

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

Before I could answer, Michael entered the room and quickly slipped into my bed. He snuggled up to my back and wrapped his arms around me.

“You’re a Goddamn idiot, jumping out of the car like that, you know?”

“Uh hello? You were trying to kill us!”

He started crying into my neck. I didn’t know what to say. It just really occurred to me that I didn't know this man at all and I was scared.

“I thought you were my friend, you don’t know how upset you made me.”

“I am your friend, Michael. What in the world are you talking about?”

“A real-true friend would have stayed in the car with me.”

“Michael, you were trying to kill yourself and take me along for the ride.”

“But, still…”

"So, I should have been willing to let you kill me ?"

"You should have stayed in the car. I'm just saying."

“I don’t recall ever telling you that I wanted to commit hari-kari even though as you put it, I have AIDS and nothing to live for. I don’t really want to die in a bloody car wreck on the interstate if I can help it.”

I waited a few moments for a reply but all I received was the sound of my bedroom door clicking shut as Michael crept back to his room in the dark and I was alone again.

Thanksgiving

2011-11-30T14:16:00.018-05:00

With Thanksgiving last week, I got to thinking about overindulgence. As a child I definitely suffered from a bad case of my eyes being larger than my stomach when it came to food. We were poor hicks living in a trailer out in the middle of a cow pasture and our diets were rather simple. I grew up on mac-n-cheese from a box, peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, Spam, Chef Boyardee and grape Kool-Aid.

So… at Thanksgiving, Christmas or Easter when we’d attend large family dinners at my aunt’s house or at the Baptist church, I’d go hog wild and eat way too much, way too fast and immediately get a bad case of diarrhea from the overload of spicy food. Wherein lies my problem, as a kid I was very “poo shy”. I was extremely embarrassed about bowel movements (and the smells they created) and could only poop in a bathroom with the door locked tight. So this meant I would only do number two in a public bathroom if it was a single toilet bathroom with a locking door. The Baptist church only had a large men’s bathroom with three toilets side by side out in the open (not even in stalls) and only the oldest, foulest men would plop down on one of those toilets and have a poop right out in the open where everybody could see you and comment on your general stinkyness. Luckily, my Mamaw Vernie lived just down the hill from the church and I’d take off running for her house so I could poop in her outhouse in private. Sometimes I didn’t make it in time and ended up pooping in my pants a little bit. I’d take my soiled underwear off and hide them in a clump of bushes somewhere and usually forget about it until I undressed for bed that night.

I remember at one family dinner at my aunt Doris’s house, I overindulged and needed to poop in the worse way but some teenage cousins were occupying the bathroom and they wouldn’t come out when I knocked. So, I crept into the dining room where all the adults were sitting around smoking and drinking coffee to whisper to my mom that I had to poop really bad. My grandma’s wisecracking, 85-year-old sister, Mamie saw me and demanded to know what I was whispering about. Mamie terrified me and strongly resembled the Penguin from the old Batman TV show from the sixties. Yes, she wore a monocle and had one of those long cigarette thingies.

(Aunt Mamie sans wig)

All conversation stopped and suddenly everybody turned around to look at me, so I thought I had better tell the truth and said, “I gotta poop and somebody’s in da bathroom with the door locked!”

Mamie picked up a paper bag and handed it to me, “Here, go behind a bush outside, poop in this bag and then throw the bag out in the woods when you're finished.” My little seven-year-old mind just couldn’t process that thought and I incredulously exclaimed, “Nuh-uh...You can’t poop in a poke!” The adults laughed until they cried and this story is still told at family dinners much to my embarrassment.

The “eyes bigger than my stomach” syndrome followed me into adulthood and even showed up early on in my sex life when I went to buy a sex toy at the local sex shop. I guess you could have called it “eyes bigger than butthole” syndrome by this point. Oh no, I couldn’t be sensible and buy a normal-sized 5 or 6 inch dildo, I had to have the mega huge Rascal. I remember stopping by the Revco for a six-pack of D batteries and rushing home with my treasure.

(rather rude looking, ain't it?)

After sticking it to the bathroom floor with the suction cup at the base, I flipped it on and coated it with Vaseline before I slowly sat down on the buzzing, squirming rubber cock. I don’t know what happened but my ass locked down on that thing and wouldn't let go. It was kind of like when two dogs get stuck together.

Little Ken- "Momma, why are those dogs trying to play leap-frog ? Can I pull them apart ?"

Momma - "Hush-up and don't touch those nasty thangs !" Yelling at my father, "Lester, go get the garden hose and squirt those nasty dogs !"

I guess too more suction or my bowels went into shock or something. I tried and tried pulling it out but the pain was so intense I though I going to die. Talk about doing some praying. I offered God everything I could think of if he’d just let the Rascal come out of my butt. I could just see me calling 911 over this and news of it getting back to my father (a southern Baptist minister, mind you)!

Oh Lord, that would have been an ugly scene.

Finally after about 30 minutes, I slowly worked it all the way out and was none the worse for wear save for a sore ass for a couple of days. To this day, I've never used a dildo on myself again and you know what, I don’t miss it at all.

I hope everybody had a good Thanksgiving. I was away from home house-sitting for the whole week but I did manage to seek back home and have a really nice, quiet Thanksgiving dinner with my mom and lovely niece, Miranda.

Hugz to all.

Profile Pics Gone Bad

2011-11-01T20:00:00.003-04:00

These are actual profile pics I found on gay hook-up sites.

Yes, really...

I call this gentleman "Super Nipples". Wonder who he was trying to attract ?

Yeah, we know you're a fun guy and you were just trying to show that in this photo...

But come on, really ?

Very few people can pull off a "floating" head pic.

Novelty beards rarely get you laid, my friend !

John Wayne Gacy And Ling Ling Search Craigslist For Their Next Victim

Spooky!

Speaking of victims...

This man should post his profile and pics over on GaySerialKillers.com

Extra Spooky !

Just because you thought it would be cute to draw a happy face on the head of your dick, don't share it on the internet. We are not amused.

Doesn't this gentleman know that yellow shoes only work at Easter ?

Somebody just had to try out the Borat bathing suit, didn't they ? No one could wear this and not look like a total fool, buddy.

I think somebody snapped this pic while this man was on the john. Was this expression supposed to be hot ? He looks like he's having a really painful bowel movement.

Yes, we've always wondered what it would be like if:

we were laying on the floor

and you walked by with no underwear on

and stopped to have a chat

right above us

and we look straight up your pant's leg

and saw the head of your dick...

Our life in now complete. Thank you for that.

The sudden, loud snapping of the camera shutter scared Derek into farting at the exact moment this photo was taken.

"Omg ! There's a ghost over there !"

Hehehe. You're so fuckin' witty !

Okay, Okay, the screen name: Nip Chimp should have given us a clue... Just don't throw do-do at us, okay.

Apparently, Santa's gay brother likes to ride his bike at Venice Beach. Love the festive handlebars, Miss Thang.

Ya'll be good. Hope you all had a fun Halloween. I ended up having to work but didn't mind too bad because I had a boatload of chocolate waiting for me at home since I wasn't there to give it out to the kiddies.

The Language Of Shoestrings

2011-10-18T22:43:00.006-04:00

Driving through a blinking caution light at the intersection of Elm & Highway 321, I’m reminded of an Irish woman I worked with in the eighties. Her name was Maggie O'Brien and she toiled along beside me at the General Shoelace Company on the 2^nd shift. She told me of her life as she helped me produce huge bundles of shoestrings in every hue imaginable. The other ladies in the plant didn't care for her; I’m assuming Maggie was a little too grandiose and haughty for their taste. She attached herself to a certain skinny, redneck boy and spilled and spilled and then spilled some more. I became her girlfriend of sorts. I was 17 and she was 42 and a mother of three. At dinner break, we ate potted-meat sandwiches together, smoked long menthol cigarettes and gossiped about the people in our factory that were having affairs.

She despised the little close-minded town we lived in and frequently entertained me with imitations of the other women in the factory that always came out sounding like a cross between Elly Mae Clamplett and Sue Ellen Ewing. She also really hated our boss, a grossly overweight tyrant that liked to tell filthy stories about his sex life to anyone within earshot. Plus, he only lived three houses down the street from her so she had to see him in her free time, which absolutely killed her.

Maggie had extremely bad sinuses and would frequently take time off to go have her sinuses “burnt out”. God knows what that process entailed but it sounded wretchedly horrible. Luckily for people now, I think they have better, less painful ways to treat severe sinus problems. Most days I had to really pay close attention to Maggie and do a little lip reading because of her thick Irish accent and the hollow, nasal quality of her voice. It was sort of like when you watch a foreign film and you have to really, really pay attention so you don’t miss any of the subtitles.

What Maggie talked (complained, I should say) about most was her eldest teenage daughter, Debra aka the Spawn Of Hell. According to Maggie, Debra was the most ungrateful, spoiled, selfish, thoughtless, cruel child (but aren’t most teenagers?) that ever entered this world. Maggie lamented her birth daily and claimed her to be a punishment from God for leaving her poor family behind in Ireland to marry an American soldier.

And then the other shoe dropped one day, Debra got pregnant by a black man. In a small southern town in 1984 that was… Escandaloso! Maggie had to spend a month at Broughton (a western North Carolina mental intuition) after she heard the news, I kid you not.

Shortly after, I left the shoelace factory to go to college and Maggie left as well "to keep an eye on Debra", but I knew she just didn't want to be at the plant if I wasn't going to be there anymore. She didn't really need the money. The job had been more or less an escape outlet for her.

Two years later I read an article in the paper that Debra had been killed in a car accident coming home from her waitressing job at the Waffle House one night at the very intersection I just mentioned above. Maggie O’Brien was currently petitioning the county to put up a stoplight at that intersection because she believed that her beloved, late daughter would have never died there otherwise.

I know I’ve spoken on this subject before, but isn’t it funny how everyone becomes a saint once they die? The girl Maggie talked about in the local paper sure wasn't the daughter she'd described to me, ya'll. I also have to wonder if Maggie thought her years and years of bitching about Debra had anything to do with her untimely death, that she perhaps she willed it to happen?

Moral of this recollection?

Don’t go around constantly complaining about loved ones or family to strangers or they’re likely to be having the same sort of thoughts I’m having right now.

The first thought I had when I read of Debra’s death?

“Well, I guess Maggie can finally stop bitching now…”

Harsh, but the truth.

I was in a local thrift shop not that long ago and heard an Irish accent in the next aisle over. I peaked between the shelves and saw Maggie was a lovely bi-racial girl looking at old prom dresses. I can only hope that Maggie holds her granddaughter dear and never, ever speaks ill of her to a soul.

Ya’ll be good.

Hug somebody that gets on your nerves.

Sex Advice For Straight Women

2011-10-07T10:38:00.005-04:00

From time to time, the subject of sex advice from gay men to straight women comes up.

So, I finally thought I’d add my two-cent’s worth to the mass of information out there. I’m going to be brief and only hit on two very important points.

ORAL SEX
(It’s all in caps for a reason, honey)

Men, straight or gay want their dick sucked, no bones (hehehe) about it. Ladies, if you’re not sucking your man’s dick, beware.

About right now, some of you ladies are saying:

“Well, he doesn’t eat my pussy.”

“When he DOES eat me, he spends like 20 second and then wants to fuck!”

“I have to beg him to lick my kitty kat!”

“Yuck, his wiener tastes funny!”

“The way he takes me for granted… He’s lucky he gets any pussy at all, let alone, oral!”

"I’m just not into it!”

“He won’t tell me when he getting ready to come and squirts in my mouth. Gross!”

“I work a full time job and we have two little children, the last thing I feel like doing when I come home is sucking the hubster’s dick! I’m tired, ya know.”

Ladies, its oral sex (lack of) that makes most straight men stray. Many gay guys can easily list off the married, straight guys that they’ve blown. I’m not saying your husband or b/f might be tempted to come over to our side for a mere blow job but he might be tempted to let that blond, 44DD fake-titted, skank from next door play his meat flute.

So, you’re not really into it? Honey, you are a femm fatale. Act, damn it… act! Merle Streep has nothing on you! Sometimes, you have to sexually do things that are good for your marriage even if you’re not actually “into” it. It’s just a BJ, for God’s sake, it’s not like he asked you if you’d be into wife swapping or (heaven forbid) came strolling into the bedroom leading a German Shepherd on a leash.

One on my exes was into the leather/bondage lifestyle (I’m totally not) but while we were together, I explored and participated in some aspects of that scene with him. He was sexually content and that made for a happier relationship.

DICK SIZE

After you been together for a while and gotten comfortable with each other, you’ll get some version of this question:

“Is mine the biggest dick you ever had?”

Or

“Is my dick bigger that your last boyfriend’s (or ex husband)?

Ladies, honesty is not required here, ALWAYS answer:

“Yes, yours is the biggest dick I’ve ever had, honey.”

Always let him know that your ex had a tiny dick. Don’t waste your time trying to figure it out. It’s a guy thing. Men want to think they’re King Kong between the legs (whether they are or not), just go along with it. Never, ever in a fit or anger, insult him by hurling remarks at him about his lack of inches. Those are words that can’t be recanted easily and will likely put a permanent dent in his sexual self-esteem.

And it doesn’t hurt if once in a while you channel Meryl Streep again and do some acting when you guys are doing the nasty. Slow him down and sweetly say something like, “Honey, you’re hurting me!” or “Honey, you forget how big you are sometimes, go easier on me!”

Again, this is a guy thing; don’t try to figure it out. Guys always like to think they’re “tearing it up” with their big, ol mammoth cock.

This also works if you’re not in the mood and he wants some cooter.

Say something like:

“Honey, my vajayjay is still sore from yesterday, can we just cuddle tonight?”

Sure, he’ll be disappointed, but secretly he’ll be puffing out his chest in pride.

Okay, ladies that’s my take on it. I realize that most of the things I’ve said here aren’t exactly PC or feminist-friendly but I’m just being as real as I can be.

Luv you, guys!

P.S. I bet you thought I was going to suggest you give him anal. Nope. Straight guys that want cooter, oral AND ANAL are just being fuckin' greedy.

Wink at him coyly and say something to the effect of:

Sure, you're into anal but pull out a huge, greased-up dildo and tell him to spread his butt cheeks because he has to go first.

Watch how fast he changes his mind, girls.

Bar Tales

2011-09-19T21:32:00.004-04:00

In my younger days when I was sexual active and hooking up regularly, I thought I was selflessly perform a service for mankind by sucking dicks. Yes, I thought I was oral-sexually healing and nurturing souls that were “in need”. If I had truly been selfless, I would have only blown the butt-ugly, the fat, the older-than-dirt and manic-depressives. But what fun would that have been, right? It’s funny the things we tell ourselves to justify sucking dicks left and right. Hmmm.

I always hated guys walking by me in a bar and staring at my crotch instead of my face. It’s creepy and it makes you feel like a piece of meat. I want to snap my fingers in their face and say, “Keep the eyes above the waist, buddy!” I’m not saying a have a “whopper” or anything like that, I’m just saying that the way that certain pants are cut, people can clearly see your junk in many instances. I got to the point where I’d wear really tight underwear under my jeans to flatten (and yes, squish – ouch!) everything down. Maybe if I had been a top, I wouldn’t have minded so much.

Which leads me to my next recollection of my barhopping days. Much to my everlasting chagrin, I was always mistaken for a top and the bottoms were all over me from the moment I walked in the door. I swear, I seriously thought of going to one of those make-your-own-tee-shirt shops and having one printed up that said, Goddamnit, I’m a bottom! When I’d turn to my friends for help, they’d tell me I was too butch. Me? Anyone that knows me really well would die laughing at that statement. I might look like some mean redneck from the wrong side of the tracks but inside I’m a big, poofy queen that reads bad romance novels and sleeps in a bed full of teddy bears with his orange attack cat, Carmeigh.

So for a period of time, I started making a point of dressing “gay-er” and acting more queeny when I went out. There was no way in hell anyone would ever mistake me for a top again. And yes, I was basing this on the current stereotypes of bottoms and tops in North Carolina (not the most “enlightened” place in the world, I might add) at that time. And what are those, you may ask?

*Tops dressed simple. Usually jeans/tee shirt combo and wore boots (my normal mode of dressing at that time).

*Tops spoke simply and didn’t wave their hands about and call each other “Girl” (again…me).

*Tops drove pick-up trucks or Jeeps (guess what I drove?).

*Tops are more apt to stare at a guy’s ass than a guy’s package (even though I’m a bottom, I’m a complete ass man and ogle that usually. As I mentioned above, I think crotch watching is kind of creepy and only under extreme circumstances will you find me checking out a guy’s package. OMG, I have to mention this tall, slender man that came strolling up the main aisle at work with his meek, mousy, knocked-up girlfriend trailing behind. I swear to God, it looked like he was smuggling an orange in his jeans. His basket was HUGE. I felt like going up to his poor girlfriend and giving her a "You go, gurl !" and a high-five).

*Tops had facial hair (I did) and apt to be hairy (I sorta am). Bottoms were supposed to be slight and smooth.

*Tops wore simple, manly fragrances like Aqua Velva, Brut or Old Spice, none of the high-priced sissy cologne from the department stores!

So (I kid you not), I went on a diet, kept myself clean shaven, started wearing daisy dukes, brightly colored shirts, tons of jewelry and flip-flops when I’d go out. I started using my hands when I spoke and I’d borrow my roommate’s Mazda Miata (a very bottom-ish car) when I could. Not only was I uber-gay, I was freakin' F-L-A-M-I-N-G, ya’ll ! You would have received third-degree burns if you'd stood next to be or passed out from the cloying, sweet cloud of Jil Sander For Men that usually surrounded me at that time.

But, I couldn’t keep up that facade for very long. Acting and dressing like that just isn’t me and to be honest, it wore me out. I’m neither butch nor fem; I’m just your typical gay man. Would you believe that even now when I make my semi-annual trip to a gay bar, guys will still come up to me and want to know why I don’t have the “pants” on. I just laugh and tell them I retired my daisy dukes when I turned 40. Folks, I look back at some of the dumb things I used to do and just shake my head in amazement.

The one good thing about being old-er:

The wisdom that comes with the life experience.

Cocky Cocks

2011-09-14T11:25:00.004-04:00

It’s a good thing I’m going to see my psychiatrist today, I just saw the craziest thing in a guy’s ad. It wasn’t so much the text in his ad, it was how he captioned his photos down at the bottom.

There he was with his dog.

(caption: Me & Max, the wonderdog !)

There he was standing at the gates in front of the White House.

(caption: Last summer in DC.)

There he was lying on a bed with his penis in hand.

(caption: My best friend.)

There he was grabbing his crotch.

(caption: My prize possession.)

Is it just me or is this man a little too into his own cock ? Men like this are the ones that stand in front of a full-length mirror and jack off. This is the problem with many men, instead of placing value on the heart or the soul, they place all their value on a slab of meat dangling between the legs.

If you were in the hospital dying, would you call a hung friend to come hold your hand or would you call the friend with the largest capacity to love to come hold your hand ?

Think about it...

*Update*
09/15/2011

I just had to share these screen captures from a guy's profile I read today:

Ten Years Later

2011-09-11T23:17:00.004-04:00

Last night I walked the sturgeon moon, that luminous, windless expanse of white, high above our spinning earth. Oh the beauty I beheld as I gazed on the brilliant, shimmering sapphire below. A sorrow like none other overtook me and stopped me in my tracks, trembling on the hard-packed shores of an ancient empty sea. Even here, so far away, the beat and breath of mankind being felt, I remembered something and pushed myself free of lunar ties...

I extracted myself from the tangled mess of Wamsutta sheets and peeled the oddly tear-slicked pillowcase off my cheek before sitting down in front of my computer and pulling up my Firefox. Can people cry in their sleep ?

And then it hit me…

9/11

Hugs to everyone as we remember that awful day.

Angels In Used Cars

2011-09-05T11:54:00.005-04:00

In the summer of 2009, I found myself developing odd; purplish/black spots on my face, abdomen, shoulders and right leg seemingly overnight. I waited a week to see if they’d go away on the off chance if was just some sort of weird breakout. But no, they only grew in size and number. I was terrified of course and I knew there was no avoiding a doctor’s visit. I’m legendary among for friends for my fervent dislike for doctors, hospitals and all things medical. I mean, I’m so glad we have doctors, nurses and the advanced medical care we have these days but there’s just something about it all that makes me very uneasy. I know, I’m a big baby (at least I own it). I used to almost pass out when they took blood from me. I’ve gotten better at that and it really doesn’t bother me that much, but I still close my eyes until they've removed the vials of blood out of my line of sight.

I suspected that what I had was Kaposis Sarcoma. If you’re not quite sure what that is, Kaposis Sarcoma or KS is a very deadly form of skin cancer that people with advanced HIV get. We’ve all seen those pictures of shriveled up AIDS patients covered in ugly dark lesions or you may have even seen a PWA (Person With Aids) out in public that was most definitely in the last stages and covered with the ugly spots. You know, you look (you can’t not look), but you turn away quickly and try to hide your shudder of revulsion. You say a silent prayer and think, “Thank God that’s not me”. Well, it was me.

KS can be treated but you have to get on really quick because it can transfer to the throat and internal organs relatively quick. Like many gay men, I’m vain. I have a pretty high pain threshold but let anything happen to my skin and I completely freak the fuck out, to put it very mildly.

I tracked down one of my old HIV doctors on the internet and sent him an email begging for his earliest appointment. I knew if I called his office, his receptionist would give me the usual runaround and offer to schedule something two months down the road and I didn’t have that kind of time. Luckily he took pity on me and told me to come in the next week for a complete physical.

To say I was scared when I arrived at his office clutching my prayer book is an understatement. My palms were sweating and I had to keep running to the bathroom in the lobby because I had the worse case of explosive diarrhea that I’d ever experienced. I said a prayer of thanks that no one came in the bathroom while I was there pooping my guts out or they would have went screaming back out the door. Finally I was lead back into the examining room trembling like an abused Chihuahua. A nurse came in to take all my vitals and asked me if I was feeling okay afterwards. I made the so-so sign with my hand and asked why. I had a temperature of 102 and my blood pressure was pretty high. Great, I’m going to stroke out before I even see the doctor, I thought.

The doctor couldn’t have been kinder and sensed my terror. When he spied my prayer book, he squeezed my hand and told me with the new treatments and a little prayer from time to time, I’d be just fine. I did indeed have the Big C.

Cancer.

After a very rocky start with the treatments (chemo, radiation, laser), getting the meds adjusted and ending up in the emergency room once, I began the process of getting well and becoming stronger. I took three months off work, gave up cigarettes, booze, red meat and prayed constantly. If anything good came out of all this, it was this new dedication to a healthier lifestyle.

I started running in the park everyday. At first it was just half a mile but soon I was up to five miles, putting all the energy I used to put into smoking Marlboro Lights and drinking Coors Light into my new found passion. I bought an IPOD and started listening to audio books and peppy eighties music while I ran. Sheer nirvana, this was MY time. Nothing like running early in the morning and singing “She Blinded Me With Science” at the top of your lungs while the squirrels scattered.

Slowly, I began to get to know the other runners. At first it was just the runner’s quick nod as we flashed by each other but soon we were shouting out pleasantries. It during one of these early morning runs when I to noticed him for the first time. Even sick as I was, a hot man could still get my attention, I wasn’t dead yet, folks.

Who is him? Him was 6’4”, muscular, dark skin, crew cut and velvety brown eyes, an angel in black Pumas that gave me a sly wink and a sexy grin as he passed by everyday. You may be asking how I saw all that in the single moment it took me to quickly sprint past him. Let me just say that this man drew the eye; you had no choice in the matter. I began to look forward to his huge shadow darting toward me on the track everyday; his appearance seemed to mark something, a point.

Sort of like someone said, “Okay, Ken! You’ve seen the gorgeous running stranger, now get on with your day.” And I did, it was somehow easier. This stranger’s abundance of vitality and life helped me to live, to not give up and something to shoot for.

Soon, I began to notice something very odd. He disappeared into thin air. Let me explain, I would pass him once on the track and then poof; on the return lap he’d be gone. There’s only one exit off the track and I’d never see him leave through it. I’d also check the parking lot for him and only my car would be there or a carload of Reeboked senior citizens coming to power walk. How was this guy seemingly vanishing in thin air? Where did he go?

And then it hit me, he was angel. Before you roll your eyes and say, “This guy has seen one too many episodes of Touched By An Angel.” Know that I’m not one of those crazy new age people but I do believe in God. I was raised in a very devout Southern Baptist household and my dad was a minister.

Perhaps God saw me...

Sick.

Alone.

Terrified

Maybe somehow, I rated an angel to check on me and to help me through this hard time. I needed to believe in something at that time. I had to know that I mattered and that I was special to God. * Isn't there something in the bible about entertaining angels unaware ? After I came to that conclusion, I’d break out in a cold sweat when I passed the angel on the track and stared straight ahead, scared of making direct eye contact with him. I even stopped trying to spot him leaving the track. It just seemed wrong somehow. If he was a messenger from God, who was I to keep trying to bust him at it?

This went on for months until I noticed a break in the overgrown hedging that lined the track one day and decided to peep through. There in a gravel parking lot (I’d never seen before) was my angel getting into a ’94 white Acura. I won’t lie; I was disappointed that he wasn’t sent from above and I was extremely annoyed at allowing myself for being so got-dang deluded. I teared up a bit, feeling deflated and sighed quite loudly. The angel's head snapped around searching for the source of the sound, but luckily I was able to quickly duck behind the hedges again, hoping he wouldn't investigate further. After giving it some thought, I realized he had been an angel to me, ushering me through some of the darkest days of my life and in today’s economy even angels have to drive used cars. Hell, they probably even carry Tracfones too. Would you believe that since the day I caught him driving away in his CarMax special, I’ve never seen the ~~angel~~ guy again?

Cue: Twilight Zone theme

*Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares
Hebrews 13:2
KJV

A Slip Of The Tongue

2011-08-30T00:01:00.008-04:00

Last week a longtime friend of mine got really miffed at me and started to curse me out because I wasn’t able to drop him off at the airport.

The first epitaph out of his mouth was “AIDS boy”.

Folks, I’ve mentioned it here before and I make no secret about it. I’m HIV positive. It is what it is and life goes on.

But to have a friend throw that up first to hurt me and wound me leaves me speechless. I just couldn’t believe it. This guy has known me for ages and has intimate knowledge of all the struggles I’ve had with my health over the years.

Since “AIDS boy” came out of his mouth first, this tells me how I’m labeled in his mind. He’s since called, crying and asking me to forgive him but I just can’t seem to really manage it.

He showed me his true colors and his soul. I know that we all say things we regret when we’re angry but to go there was unforgivable. If you find yourself that angry and feel like you're going to start slinging insults and nasty names that can't be retracted, you need to have enough sense to walk away and calm down.

To all of my gay readers: a straight friend becomes angry with you and calls you a "stupid fag" or "lesbo". Easy to forgive or not?

To my African-American readers: a white friend gets mad at you and quickly calls you the "n-word". Could you easily go back to being their friend?

To my straight readers: your gay BFF gets pissed off at you and calls you a "dumb breeder" or "clueless hetro". Do you overlook it ?

I feel that I can forgive this person in time but I’ll never be able to fully trust him again and... I’ll undoubtedly keep him at an arm’s length.

Fart Date

2011-08-15T21:52:00.005-04:00

So, you meet this cute guy and he asks you out.

You’re excited and go out and buy a sexy, new outfit for the big day.

He picks you up in his flashy, sex-mobile promptly at 6pm.

You’re happy to see him but a little dismayed that he’s blasting Celine Dion.

He takes you to a Mexican restaurant for dinner…

But you guys have a good time anyhow and get friendly on the way out.

After leaving the restaurant he discovers that he's left his iphone on the table and you offer to run back inside to fetch it.

When you get back in the car he has a very sheepish look on his face.

And then you realize why…

Your handsome, sexy date has just cut a fart so bad and so thick that an animator from Disney would draw a green, noxious cloud surrounding the car and with little, squiggly stink lines radiating from his ass.

You try not to gag but what do you do ?

Do you act like nothings wrong and nonchalantly roll your window down (even though it’s 18 degrees) ?
Do you ask him if he needs to go back inside and visit the gents ?
Do you laugh, fart very loudly yourself and say, “Damn, I’m glad I’m not the only one that always gets gas after eating at Mexican restaurants !”
Do you turn to him with a dramatic sigh and say, “Well, I guess you won’t be bottoming for me tonight…”
Do you say, “Poor baby”, pat his arm sympathetically and offer him a Tums ?
Do you make a fanning motion in front of your face and say, "Remind me never to go out for Indian with you, El Stinko !"

Yes, folks, this was based on a real date I had. I ending up doing E .

Ya’ll be good, I luv ya. Watch those beans on first dates !

*Note - actually El Stinko was the Mexican restaurant's mascot.

Write Right

2011-08-11T10:58:00.006-04:00

Recently someone asked me if I’d gotten what I originally wanted from blogging and I really had to think about that question for while before I could come up with an answer.

In the late 90’s and early 2000’s, I had an actual web page on Yahoo’s Geocities platform until they suddenly closed up shop (and didn’t even give me a chance to back up my data, I might add…bastards !). Bloggers, listen to me, Back your shit up ! Learn from my mistake.

I started this current Blogger blog in 2007 and I’ve certainly been guilty of different mindsets about it in the years since. I have to be honest and say that I’ve never been one of those lucky people that everything seems to just drop into their laps seemingly without much effort.

I wasn’t blessed with:

deep intelligence
a pretty face
a hot body
a big penis
financial wisdom
multitudes of useful talents

But, I am funny and a damn good storyteller.
(modest, ain't I ?)

Writing is hard and sometimes I shy away from it because I just don't have the mental energy to handle it.

Not writing isn’t an option.

Even when I’m not actually writing, I’m writing things out in my head or planning my next blog entry.

Honestly, when I first blogging, I had this idea that I’d be “discovered” and become a media darling or at the very least, be asked to write a column for a magazine. Like most people with the writing bug, I dreamt of the day I’ll be able to live off my writing. But really, isn't that what we all want, to be paid a living wage to do something that we absolutely love ? Heaven, indeed !

Being discovered or offered a writing gig isn’t really my objective anymore (though it would be very nice). I have to have somewhere to release all the crazy thoughts that bounce around my mind on a daily basis. You know, put things out there in the ether and sort of let the chips fall where they may... I remember how in the beginning I used to get so upset when I’d pour my heart out in a long post and not even receive one tiny little comment from a reader. Don’t get me wrong, I still love getting comments from readers (as a good blog should be interactive), but nowadays I think of my blog more as a catharsis than anything else. Plus, I understand that people can’t comment on a post if they can’t really relate or contribute anything to the topic being discussed.

Truly, blogging has saved my life.
Well, that and some strong-ass antidepressants...

Also when I first started blogging, I though readers would instantly love everything I wrote and I’d make tons of friends. I saw my blog as having at least 1500 followers (a fate that I've found out that is quite impossible unless your blog features bareback twink porn). I had my sights set on being Super-Blogger, sort of a redneck version of Perez Hilton (except I wasn’t going to talk about Lindsay Lohan, Brittany Spears or Paris Hilton, I was going to talk about tricks-gone-bad, asshole boyfriends and the best method for douching out your mangina).

I’m extremely grateful for all the followers I do have and the fellowship of all the other bloggers I've befriended. I’ve truly enjoyed exchanging comments with you guys over years.

And lastly, I wanted my blog to be my legacy for my niece 21 year old niece, Miranda. As some of you may know, my health isn’t that good at times and blogging gives me a chance to leave a record of just who I really was.

So, all and all, I'd say that I've gotten exactly what I wanted from blogging and with God's grace, I'll continue to do it for a long, long time.

Big hugs to all my followers and friends.

Bird Nerd

2011-08-07T11:03:00.002-04:00

Yesterday at work I noticed a large, well-built geeky guy standing in the line to the cash register playing Angry Birds on his I-Phone. Then I glanced down and noticed that he had a can of mace of dangling from his belt-hoop.

Now I don’t know how familiar you are with Western North Carolina. But it’s not exactly a place a guy needs to worry about his personal safety and certainly not if you’re 6’4” and weigh 195.

Now, I’ve been in some scary-ass areas in DC, NYC and Los Angeles and even I (skinny, little fairy that I am) didn’t carry mace or pepper spray (Though I probably should have in DC because some guys jumped out from behind a dumpster and attempted to mug me this one time. Luckily there was a sex shop right there and I was able to quickly back peddle into it and call a cab to come retrieve me instead of chancing the walk to the metro station again).

But, back to the geeky guy again…

Perhaps he had a dangerous job?

Maybe:

He works in prison?
He’s a mailman and carries mace to squirt Rottweilers and Pittbulls?
He’s a repo man?
He’s a drug dealer?
He’s a pimp?
He’s one of those guys that refills ATM’s with cash.

No, I think he was just a major dork.

YOU'RE A WHORE

2011-08-05T10:11:00.000-04:00

R.I.P. L.A. Banks

2011-08-02T13:16:00.001-04:00

I'm sad to say that the fabulous paranormal author, L.A. Banks passed away this morning. Of course, your legends of fans will miss your books, Leslie.

But much more than that, the world will miss YOU.

Bad Chat

2011-07-30T21:38:00.005-04:00

Since when did tackiness become in the new in thing in the gay community? I may be showing my age, but it seems that once upon a time we (as a whole) wanted to come across as classy and well breed, not white trash.

Folks, I was raised as white trash as you can get. We were dirt poor, drove around in a car with rusted-out floorboards and lived in a old trailer in the middle of a cow pasture. I rose (not very far, some would say) above my upbringing and there’s no reason the gay community couldn’t either.

I am no prude by a long shot and I’ve definitely been around the block a time or two, but why do I want to take a hot shower every time I chat on Gay.Com or check my messages on other well-know online dating services ? Within minutes, I’ve had a man express an interest in pissing up my ass, one wanted me to mail him my dirty jock straps and I received an email from a local man wanting to “suck me off”. What ever happened to asking a guy out for dinner or to the movies ?

Ugghh.

Is this just a gay male thing, perhaps ?

To my single lesbian readers, would it be normal for another woman to IM you and ask if you want to be “eaten out” or ask your bust size within, say a minute ?

It’s seems like everyone is looking for Prince Charming but no one wants to be Prince Charming. What do we do ?

People tell me that I should go to a gay church is I want to meet a higher class of gay men but to be honest, I tried gay church in the mid-nineties with my ex and we didn’t care for it. Maybe it’s time I give it another go.

I had a reader once point out that I seem to always be down on the gay community. My reply to him was this, just like a mother is harder on her own children because she expects more from them, I’m harder on the gay community because I care and I expect more out of you guys. We're supposed to be the sensitive, creative ones, right ? Let's act like it and stop thinking through out dicks and boi pussies constantly.

Ya’ll be good and forgive my rant.

Age Is Just A NUMBer

2011-07-25T22:01:00.007-04:00

I’m an honest person but I have been known to lie about my age.

What I’m tired of is people under 40 or people that are already “attached” (and out of the dating scene) telling me that:

*Age is just a number

*Be out & proud about my age. Shout it from the rooftops.

*I should have a “fuck-you” attitude toward ageism.

I was born in 1966 but I often list my birthday as 1974. I’m actually 45 and not the 37 I claim to be. At 45, I’m dead in gay years. It's sad because I still feel so alive.

Gay is young and gay is fabulous. Gay is not 45. Other 45-year-old gay men aren’t interested in you. They want young, fresh, hairless, easygoing boys with killer abs and large erections that never deflate.

They Don't Want:

*guys that have to trim their nose hair once a week

*guys that constantly contemplate getting Botox

*guys that would slap your face if you even suggested fisting

*guys that get severe cramps in their legs when they throw them to Jesus

I have to laugh when my twink friends tell me I should be ashamed of myself for fudging about my age. All I can say to that is “Get back to me on that when you turn 40 and we’ll discuss the subject again.”

It's like when you try to give parenting advice to your straight friends. They just look at you, roll their eyes and and let it go in one ear and out the other. You know what's coming next, right ? Usually some variation of the this statement, "When you have kids of your own, then you can give me advice...until then, shut it!"

And what’s equally bad is when my older (over 40) friends that are in long-term relationships say stuff like, “It ain’t that bad, stop being such a drama-queen, Ken!”

If they were to break-up with their long-term partners and suddenly go back out on the dating market at their age, they’d be in for a rude awakening. I wonder if they would handle the rampant ageism in the gay community without becoming bitter and jaded?

Folks (and you can quote me on this one), there’s absolutely nothing worse than an old, jaded, bitter queen!

*Note to hot, young twinks:

Next time you walk into a gay bar and feel all eyes turn to you (admiring and undressing you), just know that there's an old, bitter queen somewhere in the corner hating you (because once upon time those lusty glances fell on HIS body) and industriously mapping out a plan on how he can run over your sweet-little-ass in the parking lot and get away with it. I'm just saying...

If I ever feel like I'm turning into an crabby old gay man, I'm going to go adopt 6 cats from the animal shelter, dye my hair pink and open a beauty shop called Kenny's Kut-N-Kurl. You heard it here first.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the gay community and I do have faith in it. I’m truly ever optimistic that I’ll find a guy that’ll appreciate me for the funny, nice guy I am and who wouldn’t give a damn about that glaring 1966 that stares back at me from my driver’s license.

Ya'll be good and set one of your older, single friends up, okay. Don't make me come over there.

R.I.P. Amy Winehouse

2011-07-23T19:02:00.002-04:00

I just heard that Amy Winehouse has been found dead. I'm sure none of us are very shocked. We all knew it was coming, we just wondered when.

I feel really bad that she couldn't seem to get the help she so desperately needed or pull herself out of the deadly downward spiral she was on. Hopefully she'll find some degree of peace in the afterlife.

Girlfriend, no matter what anyone said about you, you could SING.

Bear Attack !

2011-07-14T10:55:00.006-04:00

I was sexually assaulted last week and I liked it. Before I start getting hate mail about how sexual assault or rape is no laughing matter, let me say that I’m quite aware of that. I was raped once and it took me years to be able to go in a room with a guy without plotting my escape route or staying very close to a door. That’s a story for another time.

Last week I dropped by the local leather/bear bar in Charlotte called The Woodshed. I make myself go out from time to time to just soak up some gay culture because I tend to hibernate (just like a bear) at home for long periods of time. I worry that I'll become too redneck if I don't get out and mingle with my own kind once in why.

So, there I was sipping on a very overpriced glass of coke and chatting to some old pals of mine when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed this large-ish bear leaning up against the wall staring fixedly at my ass and not caring that I’d caught him doing it. I moved on and went about my business throughout the evening but noticed that wherever I went, he was behind me staring unabashedly at my rump. It kind of amazed me because I haven't had such a lustful glances turned my way in quite some time.

Right before I was to leave, I decided I better head to the bathroom and pee before I made the 45 minute drive back home. I did my business and was just about to leave when a large, hairy arm shot out from one of the stalls and yanked me inside. WTF ! Of course, I started to struggle at first but soon realized it was The Bear. He quickly covered my mouth with his and dropped his pants with one hand. Without one word being exchanged, he pulled up my shirt and started biting my nipples and well…I started getting turned on a little. Then one of his hands shot down the back of my shorts and started to probe at my butthole. I started to struggle again because I knew I had to get out of there or I was going to get fucked over the toilet in this pee-soaked stall. Mind you, I'm no angel, but I don't do that sort of thing anymore. Somehow I got his wondering hand out of my pants and backed out of that stall, quick.

I had a big ol’ smile on my face when I left the bar though. His kisses and clumsy fumbling had woken something up in me that’s been asleep way too long. Part of me wished I was the type of boy who had sex in bathroom stalls with anonymous strangers.

Ya'll be good and beware of people staring at your ass for long periods of time. They just might be planning to tap-dat-booty if given half a chance.

Over And Over

2011-07-08T22:43:00.001-04:00

I've reinvented myself more times than Madonna and Cher combined.

Maybe a rainbow Mohawk next ?

Whatever

2011-06-27T08:59:00.001-04:00

It seems like I spend so much time trying to get some ungrateful man to figure out if I'm worthy of his attention. I look forward to the day when I either meet that man that does decide I AM worthy or I'm too damn old and ugly to even give a damn.

I know, I know... you're playing the world's smallest violin. Fine, be that way. Mean bitch.

Picture it...

2011-06-24T09:23:00.007-04:00

Today I want to talk about something that's near and dear to my heart: fucked-up profile pics ! What follows below is real, actual photos that were posted with personal/hook-up ads.

Herbert models his new micro-thong

Okay, pops...just because you can still (barely) physically squeeze yourself into one of the latest offerings from International Male, doesn't mean you actually should ! This is an item only a buff, 22 year-old model would look good in. We know you were just trying to live-a-little and show people you still have an edge, but don't...please don't...

Cocky Driftwood

Yes, we know you have an artistic soul but spare us the pictures of your cock with weird props. We don't find your cock nearly as interesting as you do, dude.

Rawr !!! Look At My Guns !!! Power !!!

We can see that you have muscles, Gay Hulk. But if I were you, I'd be carefully about posting pics that make you look like you're trying to pass a really large and painful stool.

Randy Always Did Have A Piercing Gaze...

Okay, where was this poor guy's friends when he decided to post this picture ? Two things are wrong here:

*Bad hairpiece. Very dated hairpiece. I know, I know... people call them "systems" now, but come on, this is a major rug if I ever saw one.

*Red eyes. Guys, do not, I repeat, do not post pictures of yourself with red eyes unless you're into pretending that you're demon-possessed. Either invest in a camera that has the flash/flash red-eye prevention feature or get some decent photo editing software. Don't say you can't afford it or you don't know enough about computers to fix it with a photo editing program. There are some great free, easy photo programs over at: http://download.cnet.com/.

Grrrrrr ! These Boots Are Made For Walking...

There's so much wrong going on with this pic that I barely know where to start. All I can say is this, how in the world can you post a pic like this and expect someone to see it and think, 'Gee, I have something in common with this guy. I think I better dash off a reply to his personal ad, pronto ?

Ya'll behave yourself. I luv ya.

Bananarama - Movin' On

2011-06-20T11:27:00.000-04:00

My mood today. See post below this one.

Wiser ?

2011-06-20T09:00:00.001-04:00

The more I consider myself wise in the ways of man, particularly gay men; I find that I know nothing.

My heart has just recently taken a beating. All the warning signs were there but I chose to ignore them and believe that love conquers all. Not so. It’s been said a million times before but I’ll say it once more, sometimes love just isn’t enough…

Why Homosexuality Should Be Banned

2011-06-16T08:20:00.000-04:00

This is brilliant.

A Wee Bit Much

2011-06-05T14:07:00.008-04:00

Dirk Bogarde, the wonderfully witty gay actor from England wrote nine autobiographies. Yes, folks... I said, nine. Even though I have great respect for his body of work, I think nine autobiographies is the height of arrogance and a wee bit much. To think that your own life and existence is worthy of nine excruciating long autobiographies...

Wow.

I have a feeling Mr. Bogarde had a very high opinion of himself and he should have taken up a hobby when he was living to cease his non-stop obsession with the mirror. Can we say, "Concentrating too hard on your own legacy" ?

I have a feeling only his editor read all nine anyhow.

I'm just saying...

__ Years Ago, I Was Hatched.

2011-05-30T22:26:00.002-04:00

Little Ken, age 8

My old ass, now (well, 5 days ago)

Today was my 37th birthday and yes (thank you), I had a good one. My mom bought me a those little window-unit air conditioners which I so sorely needed because my place is hotter than the devil in summertime. Ever try to put your COVERGIRL on in 98% humidity ? The shit melts right off your face and gurlfriend, all the product melts right outta your hair and runs down into your eyes. Ever had AquaNet in your eyes ? Fuckin' stings !

I kid, I kid...I don't wear make-up (much). I do use product in my hair, lots-n-lots of product. How do you think I get my jacked-up hair looking so "pretty" ?

And thanks to everybody that texted/called/facebooked/emailed birthdays greetings. I love you guys and thank for putting up with my crazy-ass another year.

Depressed, Much ?

2011-05-24T14:44:00.002-04:00

One thing I’ve found out is that people have unusually strong feelings about antidepressants.

You guys may or may not know that I take part in quite a few discussion forums on the internet. Recently I was in a gay mental health forum and read a posting from a guy in England that was constantly experiencing unexplained long bouts of depression. I replied that perhaps he might speak to his doctor about prescribing an antidepressant.

Well, folks… You’d think I’d just suggested he start smoking crack for his depression because I was instantly bombarded with negative feedback from all the other readers about the fact that I had advocated and advised a depressed man to “dope” himself with mood-altering chemicals instead of trying calming, holistic stuff like yoga and crystals (do people really still do that ?).

Well, # 1 : Wouldn’t a depressed person be the best candidate for antidepressants ? Duh huh.

And # 2 : A good antidepressant is going to be much more effective in treating severe depression than holding some multi-colored stones in your hands and chanting.

# 3 : Yoga is a very good idea. Exercise is great for depression. Why do you think I run all the time ?

I dated a guy named Frank when I younger. The first night I went over to his house he noticed me staring at him while he took a pill and nonchalantly explained to me that it was his antidepressant. I was amazed that this man would willingly admit that he took antidepressants. To me it was the same as admitting that he was completely stone cold crazy. I began to view him as a loose cannon, weak-minded and just downright pitiful. I know, I know… I was a big-fat-jerk. I discriminated again him and for that I’m ashamed.

In 1999, I interned with an interior-decorating firm for the summer while I was attending The Art Institute. As you might imagine, there was a very colorful, close-knit group of employees there and we all became fast friends. Jean, one of the ladies I worked with was one of those bored, childless housewives that get their interior-decorating degree all because somebody once complimented her on the curtains they’d made from old Wamsutta twin sheets. Jean always seemed to be in daze and off somewhere in lala land about 95% of the time. Occasionally she would pop out of it and be clear as a bell, but not that often. When I discretely (right) inquired about it, I was told that she was on antidepressants. All I can say was WOW. That must have been some strong shit she was taking. That’s what my doctor would call over-medicated.

Dr. Barker (my shrink) described it to me this way: you moods and feelings should read like an healthy EKG, lot’s of ups and down – normal.

Over-medicated on antidepressants, it would be like reading an EKG of someone that had just flat-lined. Jean was definitely a mental code blue.

I take an antidepressant called Celexa twice a day. It has truly saved my life, literally. I can’t begin to tell you how much better I feel now. Sure, there are some side effects like a constant dry mouth and a decrease in sex drive. But for what it does for me, I can live with that.

I seldom talk about my use of antidepressants with my family or my friends because unfortunately that stigma still exists that people that who take antidepressants must be bordering on crazy or just about to go postal.

Ya’ll be good and hug a depressed buddy.

WTF

2011-05-21T10:27:00.001-04:00

I found this picture posted in a guy's profile today. I don't know about you, but guys that put little Mexican hats on their penises worry me.

TV

2011-05-13T20:22:00.001-04:00

Last night while I was putzing around on the computer, I watched the premiere of the Chastity Bono documentary, Becoming Chaz on Oprah’s Own Network.

If you’ve never heard of it, it’s…well… a very interesting 90-minute film about Chastity’s transition into a man (Chaz). You follow her (I mean, him) through hormone injections and having a double mastectomy to completely remove her breasts. You meet Chaz’s cute girlfriend, Jen and you'll come to the same conclusion as I did that they are very well matched as a couple. Jen, obviously is the "woman" in that relationship.

And yes, Cher is in the documentary too (you know you were dying to ask, queen). You would think that being a gay icon herself, Cher wouldn’t have had such a hard time with Chastity/Chaz’s lifestyle but she hasn’t really fully embraced it. I think it might be a case of that-sort-of-thing-is-fine-for-other-people-but-I-don’t-care-for-it-in-my-own-family syndrome. Cher didn’t even show up at the hospital for Chastity’s mastectomy and I felt really bad for Chaz. I could tell it bothered her though she/he put on a brave face.

This got me to thinking about gay TV viewing habits…

I mean, would you even call your TV viewing habits “gay” ?

I do watch some stereotypical gay shows like RuPaul’s Drag Race (love it!) and I gotta say, I love me some * Golden Girls but if I had to qualify my viewing habits, I’d say I have the viewing habits of a college kid. I mainly watch stuff like South Park, Family Guy, Reno 911, True Blood and Court TV. I generally prefer light, fluffy TV programs, nothing too serious (I get enough of that in my own life).

And now that Logo isn’t constantly showing Buffy 24/7, I’ve started to get into some of their programming again. Do they really think gay guys are into Buffy that much? I think they have us confused with fat, pimply 15-year-old-girls, ya know.

And you know what really fuckin’ rocks? They show Strangers With Candy and Ad Fab! Those two shows right there make it a worthy channel to me. The only thing they need to do is show Xena for our sister girls.

What do you guys think about the Here network (On Demand) ? When it first came out I subscribed to it for I think, an additional $6.95 a month and it was well worth it. They have very high quality gay programming (in my opinion) and they showed Dante's Cove.

I'll be the first one to admit that I didn't watch Dante's Cove because it was that great of a show. It was definitely the hot, half-naked men that kept my attention, not the cheese-ball plots and bad acting. In the end I cancelled my subscription to Here because I found that I wasn't actually watching it that often and I'd already seen most of the gay films. Lately though, I've been thinking of renewing my subscription...

Oh yeah, I love to watch The Food Network too. Hmmm, that’s kinda gay, ain’t it? Nothing gives me wood faster than a hot guy in the kitchen cooking up some crazy-ass dish that I’ve never heard of.

(ain't he adorable?)

Now that I’m reading back over this, I guess my viewing habits are kinda fruity. Whatever. Who really cares? Never apologize for your taste.

Ya’ll be good and don’t forget to unplug your TV if it starts storming really bad. Don't roll your eyes.

* I can’t sign out without telling you who I am. It’s a proven fact that any time you bring up the Golden Girls in front of gay men, they always have to tell you which one they are. Well, folks I’m proud to say that I’m most definitely, Rose. I’m dingy as hell and I love to tell long convoluted stories (see blog).

F-a-g-g-o-t !

2011-04-28T11:56:00.016-04:00

One evening last week when I left work around 10 pm, I stopped at the service station down the road from my store to get some gas before heading home. This service station is in the same strip as a huge Wal Mart and sits maybe 200 yards from the main road leading into the Wal Mart parking lot. The light had just turned red and there was a long stream of cars waiting to turn into Wally World.

I stood there in my own little world, lost in thought, tired and hurriedly fueling up my little Mazda. I finished and started screwing the gas cap back on when I heard someone shout in what they believed to be a faggy-sounding voice, “Hey-are you gay?”

I looked up at the stream of tricked-out lowrider trucks waiting to turn into Wal Mart for a moment and went back to digging through my wallet for my MasterCard. I didn't really pay it too much attention because that sort of thing hasn't happened to me since I was in high school.

Well… except for this one incidence in DC when this street person got mad at me because I wouldn’t give him a cigarette (I smoked at the time) and called me a stupid fag.

I started walking across the parking lot to head inside and pay when I heard a very loud, “F-a-g-g-o-t !” screamed and then a bunch of male laughter. Okay, now it hit me, those fuckers are hollering at me.

I was the only one standing there besides an old lady in a beat-up van. I could have turned to the old lady and and said, "Ma'am, I think those guys just called you a lezbo," just to see how she'd react. Maybe she'd gasp and say, "Damn, I knew I shouldn't worn these god-damn Birkenstocks. They give me away every time !"

So, how did these random hicks know I was gay? All I can assume is that I must have waited on them once at Barnes & Noble. About six months ago, someone had written, "Everybody that works here is gay!" on the bathroom wall at work. At the time, I'd assumed that one of our metrosexual-ish managers had pissed somebody off and they'd just needed to blow off some stream.

But...

Now I'm beginning to think they indeed meant me. Hmmmm.

I felt fear for an instance, not fear for my safety but fear that I’d been fooling myself all these years, thinking I was rather straight-acting and I that blended well. And let’s face it…deep down, it was a nagging fear that my awful teen-age years would return and I’d once more be vilified and tortured by stupid rednecks.I know, I know...I shouldn't care about how straight-acting I am or if I blend well into straight society but I have to live here and I don't really want to constantly be called-out as gay. I will gladly tell anyone that I'm gay in an instant if they ask me but I don't clobber people over the head with my "gayness".

I truly wish there had been all this concern about bullying when I was in high school. There were no anti-bullying P.S.A.'s (It Gets Better) or pop stars like Lady GaGa publicly standing up for young gay boys. Adults were definitely in the "boys-will-be-boys-let-them-work-out-their-own-problems" mindset back then and didn't want to get involved.

I’m going to tell you guys something that I never tell anyone. Things got so bad for me that I had to drop out of school in the 10^th grade. I finished up high school at the local community college and after that received my (rather useless) degree in business administration from them as well. I won’t go on to laundry list all the indignities I suffered in high school but to say that I was hated in high school is a HUGE understatement.

What got me was that I didn’t even know I was gay when I was in high school but everybody else just assumed I was gay. I actually had crushes on girls at that time. Even though it’s been many years, I can still see their faces screwed up in hate when they'd corner me after lunch and try to get me to throw the first punch so they could technically say I started it and beat the living shit out of me. I cursed like a drunken sailor back then, my other nickname besides “hey faggot” was “go-to-hell” because I constantly said it over and over to my torturers . I was a very angry teen.

Some of worse events:

*A guy spit in my face in front of everyone and told me how much he wanted me to get AIDS and die. That was worse than any beating I could ever have ever taken.

*I was knocked out cold one morning on the school bus from a senior sitting behind me. He thought it would be funny to take his algebra book and crack the school queer across the head. I didn't come to until the bus driver pulled up to the school 45 minutes later and noticed me laying in the aisle after everybody had got off and went inside.

*One time doing P.E. when we were standing in line, the wrestling jock standing behind me pulled his cock out and slide it into my hand and started hollering, “Oh my God, this gay dude just grabbed my dick! Look! Help ! He’s got my dick!” I jerked my hand away like I’d been burnt and went to the bathroom to wash my hands while everybody laughed, even the P.E. coach. I was called to the office that afternoon and expelled for two weeks for "sexually molesting" that guy. I could have fought it, but the thought of not being if school for two weeks thrilled me.

*My homeroom teacher and yearbook editor hated me and decided to get in on the action. When the yearbook came out that last year, my name had been changed from “Paul” (my middle name) to “Paula”. I kid you not. One simply letter and Ohhhh God, what a difference it made.

Years later when I bumped into a girl from high school and she asked if I'd attend our upcoming high school reunion, I looked at her like she must have been stark-raving-mad. I wanted to scream, "Miss Thang, where have you been, f-u-c-k-i-n' Mars ? If you where me, would you want to see those people again ?" But no, I was polite, I just said I had to work that day and let it drop.

I paid for my gas and then got back in my car. That line of traffic was gone, the boys had gone on their way in search of pussy, drugs or cheap beer. I’d been forgotten, for now.

It’s 2011, why is being gay still such a shocking thing?

I was angry with myself for being afraid. In that moment, I clearly wanted to get on a bus and ride and ride and ride till western North Carolina was just a dim memory.

But...

I can’t do that.

I’m here and I’m queer, ya redneck bitches !!! This sure as hell ain’t my first time at the rodeo, boys.

Ya'll be good and know that I luv ya. Get out of those leftover marshmallow Peeps! I see you.

Kodachrome Queen

2011-04-07T00:23:00.002-04:00

I'm old as dirt. There were no digital cameras when I was in college. We used Kodachrome slide film because we were arty-farty little bastards and we weren't about to use plain ol' print film. Here's some of the results:

Drunk one night in the 80's. That's my 1982 Ford Fairmont in the background.

A spooky closeup.

This was my Easter outfit for 1986. Yes, I actually though I looked good at the time.

My messy dorm room.

Spring break in Nassau.

Things That Get On My Nerves

2011-03-31T22:42:00.001-04:00

Women that take up whole store aisles with their big-ass pocketbooks

and

then give you go-to-hell looks when you say "Pardon me" or "Excuse me" to get past them.

Odd Thoughts

2011-03-26T10:25:00.003-04:00

I was recently going through some of my old writing and came upon this journal entry from June 13, 2003 (two months after testing HIV positive):

"If tonight were the last night of my life, what would I say or do ? I’d call as many people as possible and tell them that I had loved them and held them in my heart. I’d also ask for the forgiveness of my parents and the two men I had been lucky enough to love. I’d write a long letter to my ten year old niece, explaining life’s mysteries as much as I possibly could. Then I’d lay down in that thick patch of clover in the lower pasture and wait for God."

I'd have to say that I pretty much still stand by that thought. But I think I'd add that if they dared remember me as some kind of goody-goody, sweetness-n-light person, I was going to come back and severely haunt their asses. Ever notice how everyone becomes a saint after they die and their last words are always, "I Love you" ? Yuck, what a load of utter bullshit ! Surely someone, somewhere in history has turned to the person next to him and said, "You're getting on my last fuckin' nerve!" and then dropped quite dead.

Maybe it's not that we all believe the lie but perhaps death absolves you of your trespasses, mostly. I'm guilty of this mindset when it comes to my brother. I didn't always get along that well with my brother and he rarely showed any affection for me, but I don't think about that anymore and I certainly don't harbor any kind of grudge. It took his death for me to realize how much I did love him.

Ya'll be good, okay.

Liz-bian

2011-03-23T20:19:00.002-04:00

On this incredibly windy March day, I’m sitting at my desk and thinking about the passing of Elizabeth Taylor. I knew she’d been rather ill for the pass week or so, but I was shocked to hear that her illness had actually claimed her. What can say that a million other people haven’t already said? Liz Taylor was a class act. All I can try to do now is tell you what Elizabeth Taylor meant to me.

I first became interested in classic movies when I was a teen-ager and often would stay up all night watching grainy crime dramas or bathed in the garish glow of old Technicolor musicals. Even that young, I had an old soul and was fascinated by people and events that had come before me. To me, the 80's and 90's were all sharp and harsh angles while I craved nothing more than the muted, genteel colors of a MGM spectacle for a simpler, kinder time.

I think the first Liz Taylor film I ever saw was A Place In Sun. I liked it okay, but I wasn’t that impressed. I next saw Raintree County and really liked that but I didn’t really, truly fall in love with Liz until I saw Suddenly Last Summer also starring Montgomery Cliff and Katharine Hepburn.

If you’ve never seen the film and you’re gay, shame on you. The subject matter deals with hidden homosexuality, mental illness and cannibalism, pretty risqué stuff for a film in 1959, I might add. I saw Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? and thought it was brilliant but I never have a desire to see it again. It’s a very hard film to watch and stomach if you know what I mean... The best way to describe it is to say that Richard Burton and Liz Taylor constantly swill vodka, swear, fight, slap and scream at each other non-stop and oh yeah... they run up and down the staircase often. It’s brutal; you’ll cringe and groan the entire time.

Elizabeth Taylor also meant compassion to me. She was one of the first Hollywood stars to stand up and offer her support to people infected with the AIDS virus. Being as I am a gay man living with HIV, that means the world to me.

When I lived in DC, I even received my medical care from the Elizabeth Taylor/ Whitman Walker clinic on 14^th street.

Liz, thank you for your courage in campaigning and fund-raising for an issue that many people wanted to sweep under the rug at that time.

Ya’ll be good. Hug somebody or something, okay.

(yes, i have this album)

Fatties With Hotties ?

2011-03-19T22:20:00.001-04:00

WTF?

So... every time you go out to one of the local gay bars, beach or park you see this same one guy that always has hot guys hanging all over him.

So what?

I’ll tell you so what…

He’s unattractive, very fat and wears a really bad toupee that looks like he just pulled it out of a dumpster. He also wears extremely out-of-date, wino clothing. What-da-fuck-what-da-fuck constantly rolls through you head every time you see this. You’re a decent-looking guy, you work out, you have a decent job and you dress nice. YOU can’t even get guys like that! What’s gives? What’s fatty got that you lack?

Let’s see…

Never, ever discount the gift of gab. Knowing how to talk and bullshit will get you a long way in this world. Believe it or not, quite a few of those hotties you see out are actually very socially shy and inept. So, being around a big talker is preferable whether they’re attractive or not. For a brief period, I dated this smokin’ hot Greek guy that never talked (except during sex, then he wouldn’t shut the fuck up). I stopped going out with him because I got so got-dang tired of always trying to get him to open up and TALK to me.
They make it abundantly clear that they’re easy. In a nutshell, guys are lazy creatures in general. They want sex but they don’t always want to work for it. Ideally, you could put yourself out there into the dating market in hopes of meeting your equal, but that’s work, risk. Or…or…you could save yourself the threat of rejection or being shot down in public by busting a nut with this rather unattractive man that’s made it graphically clear that he wants to suck your cock in the worse way (he even hinted around about a rim-job too). No demands, no fuss, no muss, no nothing. He’ll be all but forgotten by the time the Purell dries on your hands afterwards. Easy.
They’re persistent. They don’t take the initial “no” they receive for an answer from their object of desire to heart. Our pride would take a hit and we’d feel the need to slip away to a dark corner to lick our wounds for a moment and regroup. But not these guys, they’re hardcore-in-lust. They stop back by periodically throughout the evening to lavishly shower you with attention, compliments and offers of free drinks and drugs. They crack corny jokes and make very personal comments about how nice your ass, package or pecs look. At last call, they WATCH you nervously glancing around at the other bar patrons, looking horny and a bit lonely. Chuckling under his breath, he heads over to the bar to swoop you up and save the day. Sure, he’s not your type at all, but hell, it’s closing time and you don’t want to be alone. He drives you back to your apartment in his ’82 Ford Fairmont and you don’t even care that he’s 5”1” tall and weighs 290 lbs (that how got-dang drunk you are). A good, sloppy BJ just might hit the spot plus he said he had some killer weed.

Just in case you ever wondered about such…

Damn. Do I have to explain everything?

Be Good.

Hmmmm

2011-03-09T09:05:00.000-05:00

First Date Hygiene Rules

2011-03-01T15:16:00.004-05:00

Even if you’re a top, please wash your ass if you think you’re going to have sex! I was just starting to get busy between this guy’s legs when I kept noticing a really bad poop smell wafting up every time he groaned or moved a little. The only thing I could figure out was that this guy had recently taking a dump and hadn’t wiped very well. After trying to stifle a gag, I quickly made an excuse about having to work early the next and left. No BJ for him.

If you think someone will be performing oral sex on you, do not douse your private parts in cologne or soak in the gift-with-purchase strawberry bubble bath you received with that tube of Clinque bronzer. It might smell “pretty” but it doesn’t taste “pretty”. Besides, a man should taste like a man, right ? But don’t be afraid to use plain, ol’ soap and water.

If you’re uncut, do pull your skin back and wash your dick well. Not that many guys are into stinky wieners and if they are, beware.

If it’s summer or even if you just sweat a lot, do wear a light coat of underarm deodorant.

Brush your teeth, use mouthwash and sugar free mints before a date. Watch what you eat before the date, stay away from onions, Indian food, salami and garlic. If you’re a smoker and your date isn’t, don’t smoke before the date. If you get him drunk later, feel free to light up at that point because he probably won’t care that your breath smells like an ashtray.

If you’re a bottom and think you might get fucked later that night, stay away from gassy food. Don’t let your date take you out for Mexican. And do, do, do (hehehe) douche out and try to eat lightly for at least 12 hours beforehand. Try not to eat a lot of read meat.

Groom your feet; if you think there’s a chance in hell you might take your shoes off during the course of the date. Do you really want him to see those gross, yellow claws you call toenails? I think not. If you have sweaty feet, use a little foot powder.

If you’re wearing white underwear, and have to take a piss before or during the date, make sure to shake your wiener well afterwards. Even better yet, take a piece of toilet paper and place it over the head before you shake it to make sure no last minute spurt of pee ruins the pristine whiteness of your undies. And heaven forbid, you should happen to get pee all over your drawers or worse even yet a(gasp) skid mark, take your undies off and discreetly throw them away in the bathroom. Sure your date might think guys that go commando are:

Cheap
Overly eager
Continental
Cocky

But, who da fuck cares? You’re getting lucky tonight, right?

I could go on and one with these dating hygiene rules but I’m gonna stop for now for now. Ya’ll be good and don’t forget to wash your cootie. My pink don’t stink and yours shouldn’t either!

Tents In The Park

2011-02-25T15:05:00.003-05:00

Lesson learned: Don’t listen to gay audio books on your IPOD if you’re out in public. You may have heard me allude to the fact that I’m a runner and usually go to the local track everyday before work. I also usually put my headphones on and listen to audio books while I run. Well, the other day I was getting my run on and listening to a new gay audio book that I’d just downloaded from Audible when things got embarrassing. I got wood, right there in front of all those constipated senior citizens and perky-ponytail-wearing-minivan mothers powerwalking their Rooty Tooty Fresh 'N Fruities off.

So, there I was running, minding my own business when the audio book suddenly turned uber steamy and well…

Not that I’m saying I’ve got such a massive wiener that it was THAT obvious. But hell, I could see it and I felt like everybody else could too.

I pulled my t-shirt down as far as it would go to cover my crotch but it wasn’t really long enough to do much good. I was sure I heard giggles and saw people speed dialing 911 to report the pervert running around the park with a grin on his face and a tent in his pants. I even tried thinking about dead kittens, poopy diapers and other horrible things, anything to make it go down. But no, nothing worked. So, I poured on the all the steam I could muster and ran really fast to my car. When I got in and buckled up, I noticed that my erection had finally gone down. Damn. Sometime being a man sucks.

A question for all my (genetic) lady readers out there: do you guys have this problem too ? Do you ever get turned on out in public and experience erect nipples ? If so, what do you do in that case ? Band-aids or say to yourself, Aww, fuck it, let the bastards look and don’t worry about it ?

Bye, ya’ll be good and put some underwear on for God’s sake !

Straight Porn

2011-02-18T14:25:00.005-05:00

You’re probably rolling your eyes about right now and wondering what-in-hellfire-tarnation a big, ol’ fairy like me knows about heterosexual porn, right? I don’t blame you; I’d be wondering the same thing.

Let me explain something…

I saw my first porn film when I was 12. When I say film, I mean film, not a video. It was a John Holmes film called Liquid Lips. I remember wondering why all those women were so crazy about him because I thought he was butt-ugly even though he did have a huge dick. You know if that man hadn't had such a big dick, people wouldn't have looked twice at him. I say, BIG-FAT-HAIRY-DEAL ! Dick size doesn’t mean a thing to me if the guy's face could stop a freight train.

In the little southern town I grew up in there was a rundown, old drive-in called The Roseland that had fallen on hard times and started showing porn the last five years of it’s miserable existence just to break even. My brother had just got his driving license and would take me with him on his Sunday night (while the parents were in church) ventures to The Roseland. After about an hour, my brother would make me sit in the back seat so he sit up front alone and jack off to the sexy shenanigans on the screen. True, I was only 12 at the time but the man that owned the place couldn’t have cared less as long as we had the entrance fee which was $5 a car. I couldn’t tell you this man’s name to save my life, but what I remember most about him was that he didn’t have lips. It was said that many years before his German Shepherd and ran out in the middle of traffic and got hit by a car. Luckily, the dog was still alive, so the man ran out in the road to remove his dog. The dog, crazed by pain, went crazy and bit the man’s lips off when he reached down to scoop his dog up. So, there he was lipless and running a porn drive-in that let minors in, go figure.

Present Day…

Will, one of my very best friends from college is straight. I mean, this man lives and breathes PUSSY. You’d never think in a million years that we’d be friends, but we are. Will gets a perverse kick out of my take on the porn clips he’s forever downloading to his laptop.

That’s the main reason I’m writing this, guys.

What the hell has happened to straight porn? It seems that now it’s all about degrading women and being…mean and evil. The women are slapped, choked, spit on, gagged, have their hair pulled, called filthy names and used as nothing more than a contemptible receptacle for sperm. Do most straight men hate women deep down inside and crave this dark porn ? It seems that once upon a time, some straight porn attempted to glorify and celebrate women. The males made love to the women instead of legally raping them on film. I’ve since made Will stop showing me his porn clips because they haunt me too much and it’s impossible to come up with the funny, campy remarks anymore. I often tear up thinking of those poor girls and the bad place they must be in their life to allow some man to treat them like that and I know that many of them are addicted to drugs.

I’m aware that no one is “forcing” these girls to do the films.

They usually get paid (quite well).

And…

Perhaps some of them get off on that kind of treatment.

But, isn’t it sad that “normal” sex doesn’t do the trick anymore and that we have to resort to such dark, ugly, hateful acts just to get our rocks off? What does that say about current society? Dominating, degrading and humiliating others is the only thing left that makes our dick hard ?

And gay guys, let’s not get too cocky. Our porn has gotten dark too and yes, I almost always end up feeling sorry for the bottom in most films, particularly if they’re having unsafe sex. I want to shake them and say, "Why are you doing this ? Don't you love yourself ? Don't you care ?" Ever notice that very few bottoms look like they’re enjoying the act?

Oh yes, this dark attitude definitely exists in the gay community. One night over drinks, my roommate in DC confided to me that sex to him was first and foremost about having power over another person, bending them to his will and punishing them for being weak, not so much about the actual sex. That scared me and opened my eyes to just what kind of person I was living with.

There has to be a middle ground somewhere in porn.

How do you get hot, steamy porn that isn’t wimpy?

How to make decent porn that instantly makes you horny but doesn’t involve: hair pulling, spitting, slapping, fisting, pissing, choking, name-calling, cruelty, hitting, humiliation and scat?

I love you guys. Be good. Put that remote down. I see you reaching for the dirty movie! Ohhh Lord, put that bottle of lotion down! You heard me. Now! Not your dirty socks! Eww, gross. Use a wet wipe. Whatever. Don’t listen. Perv.

A Dateless Valentine

2011-02-09T21:51:00.002-05:00

I thought I’d get personal today and talk about some things going on in my life. As readers of my blog know from several posts back, I spoke about having a long-distance love affair with a man I’d met online (from a very naughty website, I might add...). I can feel myself backing away from him mentally now because I can tell it’s not working out. I love the guy and I think we’d be great as a couple if we lived near each other but he lives in Orlando and I live in BFE, North Carolina. Long-distance is very hard and both parties have to be completely committed to making it work or it will just fall apart, it’s the simply. It’s hard to be a couple when you’re not physically together. As I said, I love the guy and I’ve tried to make it work but I don’t feel like my efforts are returned or appreciated.

The problems are thus :

He’s okay with only talking to me on the phone maybe twice a week at the most (I want to talk on the phone once a day at least if I love someone). Not only that, I often don’t get texts, emails or online messages for up to three days.

When we do talk on the phone, he barely says anything and often plays video games doing our conversation, loudly watches TV (and talks back to the screen) or talks to his roommate in the background. After 15 minutes of struggling to talk to him, I’m usually exhausted and end the call. I make excuses for him in my mind: maybe he’s shy, maybe he’s just not a big talker, maybe he doesn’t want to bore me with the details of his day-to-day life, maybe he’s just got bad manners and wasn’t raised right, maybe he’s in awe of my beauty and struck dumb… (J/K)

Me: “Hey, babe! How are you?”

Him: “Okay.”

Me: “What’s going on?”

Him: “Nothing.”

zzz cricket chirps zzz

Me: "Did you miss me ?" (trying to be funny).

Him: "What ?"

On Monday, I mailed off his Valentines present as my last ditch effort to jog something in his brain and make him realize he needs to step up his game or he’s going to lose me. We’ll see… But, I have a pretty good feeling I won’t be finding a heart-shaped box of candy in my mailbox anytime soon. I’ve forced myself to quit calling him and texting him. I think he's beginning to realize something is wrong because he texted me this morning at 7:30 am. I nearly fainted and hit my head in the shower when I heard my phone ding, I kid you not

Shit, I’m a big boy and I ain’t ashamed to drag my fat ass up to Walgreens the day after Valentines and buy my own heart-shaped box of candy (and at 50% off ! Woohoo! What? I’m a broke ‘ho, shut up).

Ya’ll be good and if you’ve got a good man (or woman), fuck’ em real good in my honor, okay (at least somebody's getting some stanky) !

Poetry

2011-02-04T21:18:00.005-05:00

I wish I liked poetry. I wish I were the type that wore turtleneck sweaters and hung around in the poetry section at Barnes & Noble.

Oh, better yet…

I wish I was a pink-cheeked, Irish dude named Patrick with curly hair and twinkling green eyes that hung around the poetry section in Barnes & Noble talking to impoverished, artsy types wearing suede blazers.

And…

If I were that guy, I’d go home to my house in the foothills and sit by the fire with a slim volume of Keats, sipping a rare cognac from a chipped Waterford tumbler and dreaming well into the night.

But…

I am me, hillbilly, hick and fruitcake extraordinaire.

And...

I hate poetry.

One Eye Open

2011-01-24T08:35:00.003-05:00

I’m one of those weird people that has epiphanies in that space before sleep and waking. Just as my bedroom goes from pitch black to the seeping gray of the approaching morning, things that have been floating around in my subconscious suddenly become very clear to me.

I realized that Scott, my second lover blamed me when his car got reprocessed. I remember what my mindset was like back then and it was this:

“You’re a big boy, you’re the top in our relationship and you need to take care of your own bills. Hell, you need to be taking care of me!”

What became clear to me this morning was this: I was his 1^st male relationship. I was six years older and he looked at me as “experienced” in matters of love & life. Scott was lost when it came to money and I failed him by not realizing this and being more proactive about his bills. I was wrong, very. Who the “man” in the relationship is has nothing to do with who gets penetrated. When it comes to his family, a man is proactive, caring, protective, empathetic and strong. After Scott’s car was repossessed I had to become his taxi, shuffling him back-n-forth to work in rush-hour traffic and to be honest, I resented the hell out of it. I began to view him as a mess and kind of washed my hands of him emotionally. I wouldn’t let him fuck him anymore because I lost respect for him as a man. We broke up five painful months later. It was awful.

Scott, if you should ever read this, I’m sorry. I failed you. I was a royal asshole.

Messy Mess

2011-01-22T11:49:00.006-05:00

My whirlwind, two-week, internet romance is over. We met on one of those nationwide sex hook-up sites (I know... I know... But there's not alot of options for me). I live in Western, North Carolina and he lives in a suburb of Orlando, Florida.

My gentleman pursued me aggressively (via phone and internet) at first, insisting that I change my Facebook status to: In A Relationship within days. I thought that was rather odd but I flattered by his insistence that I publicly become “his”. He begins to talk about my relocation to Florida in the near future.

If one can fall in love with someone you’ve never met in person, I’d say that I fell hard for him. He was just the type of guy I liked, masculine, down-to-earth and sweet (and we would have been extremely sexually-compatible if we’d ever met). My cousin emailed me, happily exclaiming over the fact that I'd bagged myself a "nice Catholic boy" once she'd read over his Facebook profile. We were making plans to meet up in Florence, South Carolina to spend several days together during the first week of February. I’d even purchased a Valentine card and gift for him. Guess who’ll be eating a big box of Godiva now ?

The phone calls started petering out and the text messages went from:

Love you

Thinking about you

Can’t talk

In a meeting

When we do talk on the phone, he seems very distracted and plays video games during our conversation, answering me in a flat monotone. I can also hear his Adam4Adam instant messaging going off frequently in the background.

If I send him an instant message online through Facebook or one of the other sites we belong to, it goes unanswered though it’s obvious that he’s online at the same time I am. When I question him about it, he tells me that he went to bed and forgot to sign-off. I buy that excuse once but it happens over and over.

He didn’t call me for two days, though I saw him online constantly. I sent him a message on Facebook saying that it was over, changed my status back to:

Single

and

unfriend him.

Somehow I don’t think there were any tears on his pillow last night.

I wonder when my turn will come. You know, to get it right. To get that perfect balance of a man that’s just as crazy about me as I am of him. This one-sided shit is for the birds. I’m feeling sorry for myself, true.

See, I told you it was all sorted…

Yes, It Snows In North Carolina, Miss Thang !

2011-01-11T23:48:00.000-05:00

My old 626 in the snow. Poor baby !

Snowy tree in my drive.

I love snow !

Moma in the snow.

Me in the side yard.

Guilty As Charged

2011-01-08T11:15:00.002-05:00

The other day at work, I cruised by the gay & lesbian section and spotted an old man standing there lustfully thumbing through one of those books with a title like Campus Jocks: Tales Of Anal Initiations when a flash of outrage and disgust at the old fart’s audacity came over me. And then it hit me what a hypocrite I am. I was guilty of the very thing I hate in others, that being young gays that act like they discovered “gay” and hold the copyright.

I want to say to them, “Do you really think you’re the first guy to ever suck a dick?”

or even...

“I was taking it up the poop-chute before you were even born, honey.”

And just to be mean...

"Lady GaGa hasn't done anything Madonna didn't already do in the 1980's and to be honest, did it much better !"

Guys, older gays paved the way for what we are and can be today and sadly, I forgot that for a moment. I’ve been blessed to have worked with a delightful gay couple in their sixties for the past five years. They’ve been together almost 25 years and truly have become my role models. I’m very honored that they’ve taken me under their proverbial gay wing and share their pearls of wisdom with me. And yes, men that age still has sex, they get way more action than I do…

If you have an older gay friend, hang around them and listen. You’ll learn something, I promise.

Two Front Teeth

2011-01-06T10:40:00.002-05:00

Naturally, the holidays got me to thinking about gift giving again as it does everyone. Have you ever wanted to give someone a gift so bad it hurts but you lack the financially means to give said gift or maybe it’s just not your gift to give? Such was my case this holiday season and let me tell you why…

At least once a month, I take my mother on an outing to a museum, botanical garden or just a day of what we call “junking” (visiting a thrift stop or flea–market). On the way to a new antique mall in Hickory, my mom said she was hungry and wanted to stop by BK for a burger. You know what a pig I can be sometimes, so I said sure, I could do with a Whopper (stop laughing, whore) and pulled over. While we were eating, I noticed my mom gingerly struggling to eat her burger and it felt like a knife in my heart.

Sadly, my mom hasn’t taken care of her teeth like she should and her two front teeth have broken off and crumbled. My mother’s dental hygiene is hit or miss and she’s dipped Tube Rose snuff since the fifties. I guess you would call momma a closet dipper because she only uses snuff in front of her sisters or me but never in public. When I tell people from more cultured parts of the country that both my grandmothers, my mom and one aunt dips snuff they find it really odd because they think of it as a “man thing”. I guess primarily it is now, but it wasn’t uncommon for mountain women to dip snuff back in the day when my mom first picked up the habit.

When my father was alive, my mom’s teeth were definitely better because my dad would drag her kicking and screaming to the dentist fairly often. When I talk to my mom about her broken teeth, she just says that she can’t afford to have them fixed but I know it’s more than that, it’s sheer terror at all the procedures it would take to rescue her smile, dental surgery, implants, caps, etc… It would cost a small fortune. At this point it would probably be a better bet to just pull her remaining teeth and fit her for dentures but she’d never agree to that. One of my aunts blames me for my mom’s teeth and slips in a snide remark from time to time that I’m basically a failure as a son because I didn’t keep on top of momma’s dental care and the fact that I can’t afford to “fix her mouth”.

So, there I sat in Burger King watching my mother struggle through a hamburger and wishing I could give her two front teeth for Christmas but only being able to give the gift of love instead.

A-Shopping-I-Go

2010-12-14T20:51:00.001-05:00

Went to the Piggly Wiggly today with Bessie Rae and little Sallie to shop for fruitcake ingredients. Soon as the ~~doorstops~~ cakes are baked I'll be back blogging about bad dates, small dicks and the serious lack of Target superstores in the South.

Coming Back Soon

2010-12-12T10:46:00.000-05:00

Just been hanging around the house in my nightie listening to old records...

Bottom’s Dilemma

2010-11-06T21:00:00.001-04:00

It’s rough when you're a bottom and you wake up one morning so horny you can barely see straight.

So, you head to the city to cruise for a man.

You go to the a club that night called Hole and meet yourself a big, strapping top dude named Dexter. You just know he's gonna tear your ass up. Did you get a glance at that package?

When you get him home, he's undressed and thrown his legs to Jesus before you even get the chain fastened on the door. He asks if you want to bang his aching boy-pussy. You say, "Not really," and wonder who you pissed off in a former life to deserve such bad luck.

Damn.

Things Get a Little Spooky Around Halloween

2010-10-28T21:40:00.006-04:00

My love life is spooky. Maybe it’s the process of trying to acquire one that leaves me feeling like one of those stupid girls in horror films that always fall down when the killer is chasing them through the forest.

I met the perfect man.

*He’s the perfect age for me.

*He’s good looking and has the prettiest shoulder-length, curly brown hair I’ve ever seen and a smoking hot body.

*He’s been married and has two grown children. I really like men that have that nesting/family instinct.

*He actually wants a relationship and doesn’t mind saying so. Doesn’t believe in playing hard-to-get.

*He’s sweet and down-to-earth, a simple man’s man type.

*He’s hung like a horse.

*He’s into me. We actually wants me.

But…

*He lives in a tiny 40-year-old camper in his son’s backyard.

*He’s so poor that he pays for his packs of $1.99 cigarillos with pennies.

*His cell phone is one of those refurbished cell phones the government passes out to the elderly and poor for free so they can dial 911 if need arises. The government also gives them 120 free minutes monthly (how generous of you, Uncle Sam).

*He’s very, very evasive about his past.

*He has the dry, slightly evil, raspy laughter of what one would imagine a child molester to have. You try not to make him laugh unless you have a bar of Lava soap and plenty of boiling water near by.
***See Note At Bottom***

*He tells me that there’s a Florida court injunction against him stating that he can never work again, though he isn’t disabled. Hmmm.

*He’s one of those guys that promise you the moon and make all these grandiose plans with you and the whole time you’re thinking:

“Right. You don’t have two pennies to rub together. How the fuck do you plan on making all these things happen? Dollar scratch-offs? Rob a liquor store? Pretend to fall down at the Wal Mart and sue them for 5 million dollars?”

We dated for two whole days until I had to put an end to it. I’m a realist after all. I know it must sound like I’m a cold, shallow bitch and that I broke up with him because he’s poor, but guess what? I’m broke too. I don’t have two pennies to rub together either. Two broke people shouldn’t be in a relationship together (you can quote me on that). At least one of you has to have some money for it to work. I liked the guy, but not enough to move into an old camper with him and live in poverty. I mean, as a single man, I don’t mind eating ramen and buying cheap beer with the loose change I found in the sofa but I sure as hell won’t do that with my future partner. Talk about killing all the romance…quick.

And the really sad thing, I never even got to “sample” his huge cock or even see it.

Damn.

***Note***

In the 90’s I had a queeny, little roommate named Matt. For some reason, men just loved him and he pretty much could pick and choose whoever he wanted to date. Most of the guys he dated were total jackasses and I hated them, but one night he brought home this very attractive, broad-shouldered guy named Troy. Not only was Troy attractive, he was a damned nice guy too, kind of old-fashioned and treated Matt like the little princess Matt believed himself to be. One evening when I came home from work, I found Mat on my computer in an AOL chatroom talking to guys. Don’t laugh. It was the late 90’s; AOL chatrooms were all rage and sort of the Manhunt of that era.

“What are you doing, missy-rella ? You’ve got a man. Troy wouldn’t like you hookin’ online.” I chided him.

“Oh…him.” Matt made a dismissive sweeping gesture with his hand, “I broke up with him this morning.”

“What in the world for?” I demanded.

“Girl, did you ever hear him laugh? I swear I wanted to scratch his eyes out every time he laughed!” Matt shuddered.

“You broke up with a guy just because you hate the way he laughs? My God, Matt... he was freakin’ perfect and so nice too!”

“Whatever. Listen, can I borrow your green hoodie? TopNButt8 is taking me to the movies in a little!” Matt motioned to his open IM box.

At that time, I couldn’t for the life of me understand breaking up with somebody so seemingly perfect because you hated his or her laugh. But now it definitely makes some sense to me. Though, I still wouldn’t have kicked him to the curb if that had been the only issue. I'm many things, but I'm not fickle. I'm not perfect (channeling Grace Jones here) and I don't expect my future partner to be perfect either.

Ya'll be good.

The Vagina Song

2010-10-28T09:34:00.000-04:00

A friend just shared this with me on Facebook. This has to be the coolest song ever !

These Jeans Ain't Made For Walking

2010-10-12T22:20:00.011-04:00

Fall 1999 Collection

The price one pays for living on a hill…

Why is it that every redneck in this godforsaken town’s car has to break down in front of my house? I often hear the put-put-put jerking sounds of their old, shuddering vehicles straining to make it up the hill in front of my house and then a sudden, deafening…

Silence

Wait for it…

Bam! Bam! Bam!

There. Damn, I knew it! Some dirty, snaggle-toothed Billy Bob is on my front porch, banging away on my door because:

He wants to use my phone to call for help because he doesn’t have a cell phone or he couldn’t afford to re-up his TracFone this month.
He wants to use my bathroom while he waits for a tow truck or his wife Tammi to pick him up because his breakfast burrito is “doing a number” on his stomach.
He wants to know if I have jumper cables and wouldn’t mind jumping him off.
He wants to know if I’ll run him to the Walmart or AutoZone to get a new battery.

I’ve done 1, 3 & 4 many times but never 2. I know it sounds mean, but I’m not letting a stranger into my house in the first place and I'm surely not going to let them in to take a colossal dump in my toilet. I mean, come on, that’s just gross. Instead, I hand them a role of toilet paper and point them to the forest beside my house.

My friends say things like, “God, Ken, I just wouldn’t go to the door!”

“I’d call the police on them if they came on my property!”

“Answer the door in the nude and shake your wiener at them, that’ll scare them off !”

But, let me tell you a story…

Picture it

1999

Early one morning (and oh God, not a drop of coffee in sight), hung over and still wearing my wrinkled clubbing outfit from the night before, I did the walk of shame and left Charlotte to head back to my hometown in western North Carolina. The last fifteen miles of my journey are on a barren, four-lane highway that cuts through the middle of nowhere and nothing. Before you get on this highway, if you have half a brain cell, you check your gas gauge because there is absolutely nowhere to stop for gas or to get help if you run out. Well, as I said, I was hung-over, wanting to wash the stank of last night’s crummy sexual encounter off me and goddamn, I wanted some coffee in the worse way and so… I did not check my gas gauge. I Know, I know...dumb. The state of North Carolina needs to put up one of those "Last Chance For Gasoline" signs by the Highway 321 exit. I blame them !

My little Miata sputtered and stopped on the side of the freeway about 8 miles from home. I was out of gas. Damn. I saw a sign stating that a community named High Shoals was nearby, so I decided to set out walking but oh God, I was dressed in a pair of very tight, Tom Of Finland jeans, a mesh wife-beater and flip-flops. I had to hold my breath to even put these jeans on in the first place and now I had to walk through redneck central looking ... so... gayed-up. I was surely going to get the shit beat out of me or at the least, robbed.

Because the flip-flops were so loose, I decided I’d be better off walking barefooted, so I took them off and hadn't gone two steps before the jeans were already chafing, pinching my nuts and rubbing me raw. I seriously thought about taking the fuckin’ things off and just walking the rest of the way in my tighty-whities but hell, I didn't want to get arrested too. The cops in the South ain't too fond of gay boys.

Two miles later, I found a closed filling station with a phone booth (this was pre-cell phone days, remember?). Naturally everybody had decided to be good little Christians and go to church that morning and so, no one was at home. Shit. On the way back to the car, I cut my right foot on a broken Milwaukee's Best beer bottle and had to limp the rest of the way, leaving intermittent bloody footprints on the steaming pavement. Finally I made it back to the car and peeled those hateful jeans down to take a look at my blistered and bleeding legs and tried to clean up my bleeding foot. I was just sitting there feeling hopeless and miserable and not knowing what to do next, when this old, banged-up truck pulled in beside me and a hillbilly jumped out with a gas can.

“I saw you walkin’-a-piece back and knew you must be a stranger out of gas in dem city clothes.” He stated matter-of- factly and told me to pop my gas tank open.

Before I could say a thing, he’s emptied the large gas can into my tank, told me where the nearest gas station was and left before I could pay him one red cent for his kindness. About 100 cars had passed me on the freeway while I was sitting here and it was his old, humble redneck that stopped and helped me and not some prep dressed in J.Crew and driving the latest Land Rover.

So, that’s why I help those irritating people that bang on my door.

Nasty Feet

2010-10-07T22:28:00.004-04:00

First of all let me say that my feet don’t stink, ya’ll! I swear it!

Three months ago I purchased a cool little pair of ~~New Balance~~ (see pic). They feel f-u-c-k-i-n-g fantastic on my feet and that’s important to me because I’m a runner. But…

One week after I’d purchased them something odd happened. I was sitting at my desk doing some work on the computer and found myself wrinkling up my nose every little bit because a foul order like spoiled cottage cheese kept hitting me. I thought maybe I’d left a dirty plate with some dried food on it somewhere. I check around. Nope. Nothing. Damn. Where was that horrible smell coming from? Finally, I followed it right to my own sweet little pair of ~~New Balance~~ that had cost me an arm and a leg. Holy shit that smell was coming from my shoes. WTF!

Let me say that I’m not one of those people that thinks their own shit doesn’t stink, but I swear I’ve never had a foot odor problem, ever! It has to be something about my own body chemistry that doesn’t mix so well with that particular material these shoes are made of that causes such an ungodly smell. None of my other shoes reek like that…

Damn you, ~~New Balance~~!

I’ve tried several deodorizing sprays and different powders but nothing has even put a dent in the insidious smell that comes out of those shoes. When I come home from wearing these shoes on a run or just even out and about doing errands, I have to wash my feet after I take the shoes off or I’ll stink the whole place up.

I guess I’d forgotten I had the shoes on the other day when I decided to pop over to my friend, Darren’s house. We ate some KFC for lunch and then plopped down on the couch to watch Jeepers Creeper on DVD. Sometime during the course of the movie, I must have unconsciously niggled my way out of one of the shoes. Darren started wrinkling his nose, fanning his face and wondered aloud what that-da-fuck that awful odor was. It was then that I noticed what shoes I was wearing and that one was completely off. Ohhh shit ! I hurriedly slipped it back on when he got up to check to see if his cat had been sick on the rug, hollered that I’d see him later and quickly left before he could figure out it was my nasty feet and not his sickly cat.

Close call! Damn you again, ~~New Balance~~!

Please tell me that I’m not the only one this has ever happened to.