Thursday, June 28, 2007

Overture! Dim the Lights.

I was browsing through socks at a famous department store when my nose began to run. Since I don’t carry tissues with me I sprinted for the men’s room -- four flights up, left at Women’s Undergarments, through the tunnel near Shipping and across the catwalk past the “High Voltage” locker. The place was empty and I wasn't going to be there long so I didn’t lock my stall door, but the toilet paper holder only dispensed like a sheet at a time before slamming on the brakes. I’d wrestled out maybe five mangled sheets before somebody else walked in.

Footsteps approached the bank of urinals across from me, a zipper unzipped, and somebody let loose. While he was going at it the door opened again, and pretty soon there was so much splashing I expected neighborhood kids to scamper around the pair wearing swimsuits and water wings.

I decided to give up on the toilet paper and make due with what I had. I wiped my nose with some, stuffed the rest in my pocket, and when I was ready to go I noticed the place had gone quiet. I’d have heard if anyone had gone anywhere -- to the faucets, to the mirror, or straight out, like typical males -- but there was nothing. I poked my head over the stall door to see what was up.

Two guys were standing at the urinals, but they were definitely not peeing. The guy on the right, wearing tight Levis that framed his butt nicely, was more interested in the guy next to him than any bodily function. His eyes caressed the man’s stubbled jaw and then slowly worked their way down, and to my surprise the other guy followed suit. I popped my head down as they turned to case the joint, and when I popped back up I guess they figured they were alone, because both their facial expressions and their arm movements had become more animated.

“Can I help you with anything?” the guy on the right asked, his eyes fixing on his neighbor’s bits.

“Yeah, man,” the other guy said gruffly. He turned from the urinal, bolstering his equipment with both hands. “Suck on this,” he commanded. “SUCK IT!”

Now, this seemed a little coarse to me, but the guy on the right didn’t agree. He sank to his knees and started to zero in on the target. Maybe I needed to be a little rougher, I thought. Whenever I broached the subject on dates I approached it circuitously, touching on everything from recent gains in sodomy laws to a Woman’s Right to Choose. And the response I always got was somewhere between “No, thanks” and “Huh?” This was an exchange I needed to see.

I stood there transfixed, like Dian Fossey coming across a particularly interesting pair of apes. Unlike Dian I didn’t really want to just hang back and take notes, but I’d intruded on people having sex before and while they’d screamed a lot of things “Why don’t you join us?” wasn’t one. Before the demanded sex act had even begun, though, the bathroom door swung open again, and both men leapt back to their peeing positions. The intruder, a pale old man whose purple track suit made him look like a dachshund in a Chivas bag, shuffled to the urinal between them and after exchanging a resigned look the two guys zipped up, flushed and fled.

In the days to come I thought a little about public sex. I’d always felt it was something like dogs licking their balls: I mean, you can’t really blame them for doing it, but I’d rather not see it near my feet at the mall. But then I thought, what the heck’s wrong with it? New Yorkers can ignore the guy blowing snot rockets at our shoes, and the drunk with his pants around his ankles harassing us for change, so why can’t we ignore two hot guys going at it? Is there something about public sex that’s particularly obnoxious, or are we all just timid dogs afraid of our own balls?

A week or so later, this experience still fresh in my mind, I met my friend Gail at a fancy restaurant. I got a little tipsy and halfway through dinner noticed a handsome man at the next table excuse himself and lumber toward the bathroom. I followed, thinking I’d “accidentally” run into him there, but he veered off at the telephones and I entered the bathroom alone.

There was a nice-looking guy standing all by himself at the mirror, and I hoped this could still be my lucky day. I headed to the urinals and while most guys flee after their privacy’s been interrupted this one didn’t. He fixed his hair, then brushed invisible lint off his jacket, and though he was dressed like he had some important job he was obviously in no hurry to leave.

I could feel myself being watched while I pretended to go, and when I casually glanced over my shoulder he was looking at me and smiling. He was being pretty brazen about the whole thing: washing his hands, again fiddling with his hair, pacing back and forth. He was ready for action. I mean, damn, he was even holding a towel.

It’s now or never, I thought, swallowing hard. Time for this dog to start licking.

I looked at him again, this time trying to wink lasciviously while simultaneously coaxing my bits away from aloof. He inched slowly toward me and his eyebrows slid up. “Can I help you with anything?” he said, his tone implying a laundry list of possibilities.

Yeah, buddy, I thought. I’ve heard those words before. “You sure can,” I said, in a low but still possibly believable voice. I swung around, pushed my pants down and grabbed my dick. “Suck on this,” I said, shaking it up and down to make my point crystal clear. “SUCK IT!”

I grabbed his crotch for emphasis, feeling around for his genitals and then clamping my hand tight around them. He looked down for a second, seemingly unhappy at this turn of events. “Uh, guy,” he said, his ruddy face reddening. “You know I’m the men’s room attendant, right?”

I thought he was going to slug me so I flew out of there. He stopped chasing me after I flung him a twenty. But he deserved it: I mean, I gave the coat check girl two bucks and didn’t even touch her hangers.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

The New York Times Shows What A Little Hard Work Can Do.

Ben Casnocha is an amazing kid. He’s accomplished so much by the ripe old age of nineteen. No wonder he got a fawning profile, complete with photo, in the business section of June 17’s New York Times. He’s “precocious, informative and entertaining” . . . and he’s proof that capitalism works.

Sure, Ben can sound a little pompous. “I don’t want to be normal,” he declares in [his “entrepreneurial how-to manual”] “My Start-Up Life.” “I want to be something else.” And he can seem a little overprivileged: his lawyer-father gave him free office space, and he somehow raised a quarter of a million dollars to start a business when most kids couldn’t get twelve bucks to buy the new My Chemical Romance CD. Still, he’s amazing, simply amazing. I’ll let the Times tell you just how spectacular he is.

At 12, he started his first company.

Wow! Isn’t that great? He started a company!

At 14, he founded a software company called Comcate Inc.

Another wow! Another company! That’s two he’s got going! Clap clap!

At 17, he was continuing to prosper as an entrepreneur.

Okay, this one isn’t quite as impressive. In fact, it translates in non-BS-speak to “He didn’t die.” But you know, a lot of people did, so still more applause for Ben!

The piece gushes and slavers for over a thousand words, quoting Ben on his secrets for success. “Expose yourself to as much randomness as possible,” Ben advises. “Attend conferences no one else is attending. Read books no one else is reading.” Oh. Okay. Thanks for the tip, bud! I just reserved “Chariots of the Gods” at the library, so I’m mere days from the cash pouring in.

Somewhere near the bottom, though, Harry Hurt III -- yeah, that’s probably a clue as to why this article appeared in the first place -- seems to recognize that his emperor is flashing major beav.

Unfortunately, “My Start-Up Life” fails to give a coherent account of Comcate’s financing and the current status of the company, which is privately held. In a recent telephone interview, Ben said he withheld those kinds of details for proprietary reasons because his company is a developing enterprise.

It’s at this point that all the red flags we’ve been sensing go flying high into the air. Nobody knows how much money Ben’s companies have made? A hundred dollars, a million dollars, three cents? Yet when he writes a book about his “secrets” -- without providing a word of evidence he’s done anything -- he gets a gasping, groveling profile in the Times?

In fact, about the only concrete fact Mr. Hurt III mentions is this: Mr. Casnocha was named “entrepreneur of the year” by Inc. magazine. So though the Times doesn’t provide any evidence, the kid must have done something right, right?

Nope. A week later, the Times offers a correction. The Off the Shelf column last Sunday . . . referred erroneously to one aspect of [Mr. Casnocha’s] background. He was not named “entrepreneur of the year” by Inc. magazine.

See, this is why I think of the Times as New York’s stupidest paper. Yet again, mixed in with the consumer porn and vanity pieces about obscenely rich folk, they try to show how well capitalism works by profiling some determined sap who rises to the top through sheer force of will. And yet again we discover this sap is just another asshole with rich parents and a PR guy.

Still, this whole charade hasn’t been a total waste. We’ve answered a couple questions that have been bugging mankind since time began:

Does the New York Times print just about any crap at all? and

If Donald Trump and Paris Hilton got married, what would their offspring be like?

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

How to Please a Woman.

I'm not a woman, but it's ads like this that make me wish I were. I mean, men don't get this happy. You don't see two guys holding hands and romping through a meadow, with or without a kicky orange hat with adjustable brim.

What is it that's gotten these women so excited? Well, it must be big. After all, they've taken time off work, changed into halter tops and driven to the middle of nowhere just to celebrate. See if you can guess what Shewee is:

1. A bank that makes loans to businesswomen in developing nations, enabling them to become entrepreneurs.

2. A vaccine that reverses the effects of osteoporesis.

3. A pill that postpones menopause until you're in your seventies.

4. A funnel that lets you pee while standing up.

C'mon. Take a wild guess.

Monday, June 25, 2007

Tall Tail

I'm tall, dark, and handsome, and I think it stinks. The "dark" part is cool, and I wouldn't choose anything other than "handsome." But the "tall" thing is a freakin' pain in the ass.

Of course there are the obvious problems. When I go to the movies, whoever gets stuck behind me sits and swears for two hours. I have permanent twig marks on my forehead from low-hanging branches. And traveling by plane, well. . . . I've had my legs in the air for five hours before, but never while wearing pants.

What I don't understand, then, is why guys get so jealous.

Whenever I go barhopping, I get a ring of tiny admirers around me, shrieking about how wonderful it is to be tall. "You can see everything around you," they squeal. And I think, "Hey, kids, this ain't Switzerland!" There are no glaciers sliding by, or fluffy little woodland creatures scampering through the shrubbery. We're surrounded by 100 half-dressed men, and while you got your face rubbing Hunky's face, or your tongue on Rugged's chest, I'm left sucking on Toothpick's bald spot.

Yeah. Woohoo. Tall power!

Being gay makes being tall even worse. Straight guys don't care if their clothes are ugly, or dated, or if they fit like burlap sacks. They go to the Big and Tall store, find a polyester shirt with palm trees on it and purple pleated Dockers, and they're like, "Cool. A new outfit."

They're lucky. They're not heading back to Homoland, where the guys wear Prada and Gucci and spit on folks who shop at Sears. People in Heteroville are accustomed to crap, so they don't chase after you with torches when they spot it. They buy shoes at PayLess, food at Wal Mart, and housewares at Target. They don't clutch their palpitating chests when they see a clothing label that reads "Made in America for Freakish Fred's House of Pituitary Problems."

Here's what straight people say when they see a badly-dressed tall guy:

1.) Gosh, he's tall.

2.) I bet his parents are tall.

3.) I wonder if he plays basketball.

Here's their gay equivalent:

1.) Sweet Lord, are those pants from Sears?

2.) That reminds me. I should mail a donation to St. Dymphna's Church for Folks Who Might As Well Just Shoot Themselves.

3.) HeLLOOOO! Halloween is 207 days aWAAAAAY!!!

Lurking just outside the tiny admirers is the Bob Vila Boyfriend, poised for rescue like a knight in shining armor. While he means well, he'll prove a little annoying. It would be cool if he wanted to repair my microwave oven or regrout my bathtub, but it's geeky old me who's the fixer-upper. He approaches me like a building contractor, with a list a mile long on his clipboard, thinly veiled slurs hidden inches below the compliments:

"If you worked out," he says, ticking off item number one, "you could be really gorgeous."

Now, this might qualify as flattering . . . if I hadn't lifted weights three hours a day for the last eight years. Unfortunately, biceps that are longer than the "Lord of the Rings" movies don't quite bulge like ones that are as short as cartoons.

I smile and explain that I've been to the gym once or twice. "You should have seen me 10 years ago," I say. "I was so skinny I could have swum to Manhattan just through the plumbing."

He crosses that off and turns to item number two. "You'd look really hot wearing cotton/khaki/instant pudding/anything other than what you have on."

Which, of course, translates to, "Hey, those are some ugly clothes!" And I think, er, I've always kind of suspected that, because -- hey -- I've GOT EYES.

Now, I like getting a little attention, so sometimes I'll go out with these guys. And then the sad ritual begins. Where a date with Bob Vila might start off at Home Depot, his gay counterpart heads to the Big and Tall Store. "They've got clothes for tall guys there," he explains, and you slap your forehead, like you'd assumed they sold monkeys or clam juice or something.

What he doesn't realize is, you've been there, oh, 500 times. Once to see what they had, and 499 times to confirm that, yes, their clothes suck as bad as you remember. And the store owners are just as happy to see you, standing out like a hot dog in a box full of donuts. "Hey, boss!" the clerk yells. " That tall guy's here again! What should I do?"

The boss sees you searching in vain for anything that'll fit, and flashes back to Godzilla versus Tokyo. "AIEEE!" he screams, scurrying for the door. "Run for your life!"

I cornered a salesclerk during one of my first few visits. "We don't actually have any tall clothes," he admitted sheepishly. "We just put that in the name so it's not as embarrassing for the fat guys."

That makes sense, though it has totally wasted my time. It would be like opening a clothing store for transvestites and Baptists: Most folks don't mind claiming to be one or the other.

And so your clueless new pal drags you back there, just knowing it'll be a sea of Prada XT or Gucci Longue. He'll roam the aisles for an hour or two, looking stunned -- wondering why the Levis top out at a 32-inch inseam, which looks like hotpants on me.

I'll try on some random monstrosity, just to make him feel better, but while I'm in the dressing room he'll scurry off in shame. Me, I've been objectified, insulted, and treated like Formica in a world full of marble. I head to the nearest gay bar, where the Tiny Admirers surround me like a stretched Rue McClanahan. It's as if they're motion-activated: I scratch my head and it fires one up. “How tall are you?” he chirps excitedly. “Six foot seven,” I reply. I look toward the ceiling and another kicks in. “How tall are you?” he asks. “Six foot seven.”

I push my way toward the bar, hoping massive doses of alcohol will make them vanish. The bartender takes my order, then maneuvers his mouth near my ear. "How tall are you?" he asks.

"Six foot seven.”

He looks me up and down. With my height, it takes a while. "I see the six feet,” he finally declares. “Now how about the seven inches?"

It's an old line, but I go home with him anyway.

I love seeing that look of surprise.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Bush's Horrible Boyfriend.

Thanks to Ron Suresha -- -- for tipping me off to this.

I feel really bad for the president.  Sure, he’s pretty much destroyed our country.  He’s looted the treasury, made us world pariahs, and continues to hire idiot hacks to send our judicial system back to the Stone Age.  He totally deserves all the blame for the mess he’s made, and he should have been impeached by now.

But there’s one strong, unshakable bond that the two of us share that his complete ineptness can’t erase.

He’s had man trouble.  Bad man trouble.  And brother, that’s the one thing I know.

I’m talking about Jeff Gannon/James Guckert, of course -- the male hustler turned “reporter” who used to drop by the White House like Fonzie dropped by Arnold’s Burger Shack.  I understood how Bush could fall for him, even before I went to his website,

Aside from being hung and hunky, Jeff was so incredibly thoughtful.  He’d drop into press briefings every chance he got and lob his boy some softball questions.  It was his way of saying hello, I’m thinking of you, like my man texts me “hugz to mah beeyotch.”  “Aren’t Democrats stupid?” he’d ask, playing boy reporter.  “And why is Hillary on the rag?” Bush’s glazed look of confusion would dissipate like a raincloud, replaced by a warm, sunny glow.  You could tell it took every ounce of his willpower not to run into the audience and give his man a hug.  Hell, if I had a supportive dude like that behind me, I’d give him access to classified documents too, even if he billed me two hundred bucks an hour.

Like most relationships, though, this one burned hot and fast.  In March of 2003 Gannon logged eighteen visits to the White House.  There were two overnight visits and one six-hour tryst, the average visit lasting over two hours.

If he’d put that kind of time into college, he might have gotten a journalism degree.

Put Bush’s vacation schedule next to Gannon’s visit list and you’ll see just how deep was their love.  The length of stay doubles if the president was going on vacation, or had just gotten back from one.  On April 30, Gannon drops by for three hours, presumably to say goodbye as Bush heads off to Crawford Ranch.  On May 8, Jeff visits for six hours before Bush leaves for New Mexico.  On May 28, Jeff drops by twice before Bush takes off for Poland the next day.

Now, you know the president must be hooked bad, because think about it for a second.  He’s going on vacation in mere hours.  You know what that’s like, right?  You’re running around like a crazy person, wondering if you packed the toothpaste, making sure the stove is off, tossing out your bananas so they won’t rot while you’re gone.  You’re sweating, you’re freaking out, you’re sure you’re going to miss the plane.

Even if you hang around with male hustlers, you aren’t going to stop and chat should one happen to drop by.

Somehow, though, Mr. Gannon always fits into the schedule.

The same two time lines show us how quickly the bloom fades off the rose.  By March 2004, the visits have dropped off dramatically.  Jeff went to see George just eleven times.  There’s only one overnighter.  One lone visit is over two hours, and one is a mere six minutes long.  The average visit time is 72.7 minutes.

That's what clued me into this affair in the first place.  I mean, real reporters don’t lose interest in the most powerful man in the world after they get to know him:  no, that’s what boyfriends do.  Six-hour visits turning into six-minute visits?  Sister, that screams "RELATIONSHIP!" to me.

Like with Bennifer and Vaughniston, it’s the media that split these lovebirds.  Some busy-body realized Jeff wasn’t really a reporter and the crap hit the fan.  Gannon’s last two visits read like a Dear John letter:  There’s one last overnighter February 1, 2005, before Bush heads off to mid-America.  When he returns, there’s a three-hour visit.

And then, he doesn’t come again.

Now that the relationship has fizzled, Mr. Gannon is denying everything.  He claims he never spent the night at the White House, which means either (1) the Secret Service is terrible at recordkeeping, or (2) he's a horrible boyfriend, hitting the road once he gets what he wants.  He says that when someone neglects to check out of the White House, they’re logged out automatically after twelve hours, making it appear as though they’ve had a lengthy visit when that might not have been the case.

Let’s set the stage.  This is America post-9/11.  Americans are strip-searched trying to enter the neighborhood library.  We need to file notarized documents to order Moo Goo Gai Pan at Chinese restaurants.  Yet a man who’s starring on six X-rated websites can walk in and out of the White House at will.

There’s no way even a federal agency can be this inefficient, and I’m including the post office in here.

So while Jeff Gannon disappears to write his memoirs, George is left holding the bag.  He has no one he can talk to, no one he can trust.  His world is crumbling around him, like most of Iraq.  In the spirit of brotherhood, I’d like to offer my services.  Mr. Bush, know that you can call on your friend RomanHans, any time, day or night.  I could hold your hand, keep your spirits up, make you realize it’ll all be okay.

And, as you write about it in your diary, I can tell you that things like "humilified" and "miserating" really aren’t words at all.

Monday, June 18, 2007

Gay Math.

I flunked math in high school, and I blame word problems. “If one train heads east at thirty miles an hour, and another heads west at twenty miles an hour, when will they meet?” All I can think of is, why didn’t these people fly? I mean, twenty miles an hour? Ice cream trucks are faster. And the horrible food, the crowds, the screaming kids. My head starts to spin so bad bystanders ask me for rides.

Now if they’d asked questions I could relate to, I’d be Stephen J. Hawking today. I came up with some examples: see if you’re better at solving these than the junk they gave you in school.

1. Carl’s nipples are two feet from his penis, and twenty-four inches apart. A leather loop passes through the rings in each piercing. What’s the minimum length of this loop?

(a) seventy-two inches
(b) Sir Isaac Newton
(c) Is Carl spherical or what?

2. Twelve men are in a bar. Three are wearing shoes, five are wearing socks, and two are wearing both. How many men are in bare feet?

(a) God, and I thought “Pajama Night” was annoying.
(b) six
(c) This is why they don’t sell alcohol in Utah.

3. Al likes two hours of foreplay. Ted likes intercourse for forty-five minutes. If they have sex together how long will it last?

(a) The important thing here is that Al and Ted seek some form of counseling.
(b) two hours forty-five minutes
(c) Are you sure these guys aren’t lesbians?

4. If Sam has four inches soft and twelve inches hard, what percentage does he grow?

(a) Spain
(b) 300%
(c) If that’s the Sam I used to date, he thought watermelons were eight feet across.

5. Pat and Chris leave the Manhole at 2:15 a.m. Ignoring lights, they cross Melrose, then Vermont, then Hyperion. What will the policeman give them?

(a) If the Manhole is a straight bar, a friendly wave.
(b) If it’s a lesbian bar, a stern warning and a long, google-eyed look at their breasts.
(c) If it’s a gay bar and this is the LAPD, twelve jaywalking tickets and six shots of mace.

6. Arnie says “All three of us are bottoms.” Wayne says, “You’re the only bottom.” Fred says, “Wayne and I are both bottoms.” If each of them always lies or always tells the truth, how many are lying?

(a) two
(b) the Japanese art of paper-folding
(c) Sigh. They’re all bottoms, aren’t they?

7. There are thirty guys in line at the Pit at 1:30. Eight are more attractive than Wayne. The doorman lets one guy enter every three minutes. Every five minutes four more guys arrive, and two are more attractive than Wayne. When will Wayne get inside?

(a) Ugly dudes ought to stay home. That’s why God invented TV.
(b) 12:15
(c) When Pat Boone stars in “Naked Boys Singing!”

8. At 8:04 on Christmas morning Pete unwraps a G. I. Joe. If it takes ten minutes to take his helmet off, eight minutes to take his shirt off, six minutes to take his boots off, and seven minutes to take his pants off, when will Joe be naked?

(a) 8:41
(b) Christmas is a time for joy and happiness. Pete should just yank Joe’s pants down right away.
(c) Don’t remind me. That was the day I discovered disappointment.

9. A troll spends three-fifths of his money on a stud. He spends half of what’s left on another stud. In all he spends eight dollars. How much money did he start with?

(a) I know why the studs keep leaving.
(b) ten dollars
(c) I wouldn’t wave at an ugly guy for less than twenty.

10. Brad is a 10, and usually sleeps with other 10’s. After every beer, though, he’ll settle for one number lower. If he gets to the bar at seven and has one drink each half-hour, when will he approach Ernest Borgnine?

(a) Ernest Borgnine? What, is Jim Varney dead?
(b) midnight
(c) When his liver swells up like a loofah.

11. Al has two cats. He moves in with Ted, who has eight cats. If each cat eats a can of Sheba every day, how many cans will feed all the cats for a week?

(a) I could never buy cat food with a tiara on it.
(b) 70
(c) If these are the same guys with the two-hour foreplay, they are positively definitely lesbians

12. If a man and a half have sex with a man and a half in a day and a half, how many men will have sex in six days?

(a) twelve
(b) Just out of curiosity, are we talking top half or bottom half?
(c) Jeez, and I thought my boyfriend was a whore.

13. A man’s penis is twice as long as his big toe, and half as long as his feet. If the three measurements total forty-two inches long, how long is his big toe?

(a) Ohmigosh, I’m shaking like Katherine Hepburn in a massage chair.
(b) six inches
(c) This guy’s going to cause fistfights at “Barefoot Night.”

14. Black paint is $50, used toilets are $10, and a crummy sound system is $100. How much will it cost Luigi to convert his garage into a gay bar?

(a) You forgot to include how much three bad techno CDs cost.
(b) $160
(d) Garages are dark, cramped and disgusting. He’ll make a fortune.

15. Two gay people are sitting in the park. The little one is the big one’s son, but the big one isn’t the little one’s father. Explain.

(a) Didn’t I hear about this on “Dateline”?
(b) I don’t think these guys are really related at all.
(c) Everything’s so crazy these days, I wouldn’t be surprised if the big one had a uterus.

Dress nicely. Avoid open-toed shoes. Thank anyone who says you've got a hot ass, but run when they pull out thermometers.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Go with the Flow.

Last week I went to a cocktail party that positively sparkled with witty repartee and fascinating conversation. Too bad all I wanted was to get laid. I made my excuses, hightailed it to the Eagle, and the first reasonably attractive guy I saw I tailed home. We stripped off our clothes and he leaned in close, grinning like a 12-year-old about to swap his sister's Hershey bar with Ex-Lax.

"You know what would be really cool?" he said, eyes twinkling. "You could tie me to the bed and force me to suck your feet!"

Now, this bothered me in a couple different ways. First, I wasn't falling for his alleged spontaneity. It reminded me of those hetero guys who find themselves on dates with hot, tipsy chicks: "I heard about these things called 'body shots,' " they say, feigning innocence. "You wanna give it a try?" And second, I was supposed to force him to do me? I'm attractive; he should be happy I'm naked and there. I made my excuses and scurried off, adding entry No. 472 to my "Why I Shouldn't Sleep With Strangers" list.

A few days later, though, it happened again. Another guy with a weird request, and another naked scene. "You know what would be great?" this one said like a kid at Christmas. "My neighbor's a submissive pig into hypnotism and electricity. How about we see if he's busy?"

I put my finger to my chin, pretending to think, but mostly I tried to remember where my pants were. I made some vague excuse -- when you flee a pervert's apartment you don't quibble about the details -- and went out and found a replacement. My heart leapt up to my throat when we got naked and he too started to speak: "There's something I've always wanted to try," he said. "How do you feel about Nixon masks and cheese?"

"OK," I thought. "I give up. Everybody's doing that midlife-crisis thing. But can't you all just buy Porsches?"

Now, I've got nothing against crazy stuff: I mean, some people think what I do in bed is crazy, and that's before they hear about the chickens. It's the surprise part I don't like. You wouldn't ask people over for dinner and then surprise them with horse testicles in cat pee, and you shouldn't surprise sex partners with frilly pink corsets or Ovaltine enemas.

For the third time in a row, I put my clothes back on and made my excuses, but halfway down the hall I noticed my wallet was gone. It falls out of my pants a lot so it didn't particularly surprise me -- I just didn't like having to re-greet somebody whose apartment I'd just fled. I walked back to his door and heard him talking on the phone.

"He looked really hot," he was saying. "Nice face, stylish clothes. But then he takes his clothes off, and oh my God! He's so pink and furry I'm afraid the cat's going to run after him. He's got a roll of flab six inches wide around his waist, and it looks like he hasn't been to the gym since gravity was invented. I was like, 'Skipper, better put your shirt back on or Little Buddy's going to be sick!'" I poked my head in and he pasted on the smile I use when opening presents from Grandma. "I'll call you right back," he interjected. "Something's come up."

He hung up and I edged my way in. "I guess you were talking about somebody else," I said, trailed by an awkward chuckle.

"Oh, no," he said, with an insouciant air. "We were talking about you."

"So that stuff about the Nixon mask and the cheese -- that was just to get rid of me?"

He nodded. "It seemed easiest. You weren't quite what I expected."

I sighed. "Well, I'm not a model or a professional bodybuilder. But I work out three times a week, and I've never gotten any complaints."

"Oh, puh-leeze!" he cried like Joan Rivers spotting Cher. "Aside from your massive pinkness there's a zit on your shoulder the size of Vesuvius, and if you stood with your feet together I could still toss a ham between your legs."

I stared at him in disbelief, too stunned to argue. "I forgot my wallet," I said frostily, and I pushed past him to the bedroom where it was lying on the floor. Maybe he'd stripped me of my dignity, I thought, but I'd still have a Discover card with nearly $80 available. With my head held high, I strolled back outside, where the freezing air and his insults hit me like a smack in the face.

The sun was setting as I slowly trudged home and the city darkened around me. Although I hate Los Angeles, I found myself missing it: I mean, having sex there was mindless fun, while here it was like entering a dog show. You take your clothes off and they're inspecting every muscle, every hair, asking you to trot around the bed. "That right delt is slightly saggy," they say, looking up from their clipboard, "and there's a slight curvature to the spine. The chest hair is off-center, and the ears are out of proportion. I'm afraid you'll have to go." But I guess I should have expected it. New Yorkers are cutthroat about everything -- business, sports, even food. Why did I think sex would be different? For the first time in my life I had to confront one of life's biggest questions: Would I ever have sex in this town again?

I got my answer soon enough. On the subway home, a nice-looking guy struck up a conversation with me, then asked me to his place "for coffee," and I went. I stripped naked, he leered at me lustfully, and everything was cool. Then he took off his clothes, and damn. Freak-show time. From chest hair shaped like a bagel to thighs as flat and gray as Flipper to skinny ankles where the hair had been worn away by tight socks.

This would not do.

You know what I'd really like to try?" I said, feigning excitement. "I'd love for you to piss on me while singing 'Send in the Clowns.' "

When he led me into the bathroom and began humming the intro, I nearly freaked. If I'd still been wearing either pants or shoes, in fact, I'd be in Cincinnati right now. But then I thought, Heck, I'm not getting any younger, and to tell you the truth, I'm not in the best shape in the world. How often do opportunities like this come up?

I learned my lesson. By the time he finished, let me tell you, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Seven Days to a Larger Penis

In honor of Jamie Foxx.

DAY 1. Sitting happily on my couch I scan the newspaper, not thinking for a moment about my penis. In the top right corner of one page there’s a tiny ad headlined “FOR MEN ONLY! Penile Expansion Procedure.” I wonder if the “FOR MEN ONLY!” part is really necessary, since I know very few women with tiny penises. The ad has no specifics, but is dotted with phrases like “Confidentiality Assured”, “Same Day Results”, and “Mastercard/Visa” that could just as easily describe a dry cleaner. I wonder if I’ll ever be curious enough to call and I jot down the number.

TEN MINUTES LATER: I call. Genial but caring “Stan” tells me that penile expansion is a simple and safe outpatient procedure. One afternoon I go to a doctor’s office where fat cells are extracted from my abdomen and injected into my circumcision scar, if I’ve got one. There’s a pregnant pause, and I wonder if I am supposed to fill it with my own pertinent penis facts. Just as I decide I’ll tell “Stan” about mine if he tells me about his, he jumps back in. The procedure is strictly decorative, he says, conjuring up in my mind a surgical Bob Mackie, and I make a mental note to tell him I’m allergic to sequins.

In no way will the operation affect any of my average daily penis activities, “Stan” says. Daily penis activities? I ask. My typical schedule consists entirely of hanging, interrupted by brief periods of indecision. I’m wondering if “Stan”’s has sporting events or birthday parties to attend that mine hasn’t been invited to. The width increases, not the length, and the head of the penis isn’t enlarged, just the shaft. I’m picturing my penis looking like a skinny bald man in a puffy jacket.

“Stan” says my penis will increase up to an inch and a half in circumference, and I try to remember the mathematical formula that’ll give me the diameter. I can’t. I blame my old math teacher: if he’d taught these equations using sex organs instead of pies I’d be Stephen J. Hawking today. “Stan” says he’ll mail further information and he says goodbye in that way people do when they know you’ve got a small penis.

I dig out my old algebra book and find the equation: the circumference of a circle is two pi times the radius. Pointing my solar-powered calculator toward a lamp I discover that adding an inch and a half to the circumference increases the diameter 0.4774637 of an inch. Hmm. I’m more impressed by my mathematical ability than by the thought of adding less than half an inch to my penis width.

DAY 2: I get a brochure in the mail from “Stan” that looks like a cardboard walk-in closet with “For Men Only” written across it. Behind the first door is a patient’s testimonial: “I now have a new life and I am fine.” I wonder why in every advertisement I’ve ever seen for tummy tucks or nose jobs there are patient photos printed but in this brochure there are no BEFORE and AFTER penises. There’s a letter enclosed, though, that says a video is available, “for viewing in the privacy of your home”. I wonder why they add this line: are they afraid of accidentally sending it to someone with Jumbotron access? Would some unscrupulous Broadway producer use this footage to mount some sort of penis revue? I send in a check to cover the deposit.

DAY 3: The video arrives in the mail. The good news is, nowhere on the package are the words HERE’S THE PENIS ENLARGEMENT VIDEO YOU SENT FOR. The bad news is, there are still no before or after shots.

The first testimonial comes from a sweaty, shaky man who looks like Nixon when he resigned. His conversation veers inexplicably and repeatedly to his penis. Whereas the milestones in most people’s lives are birth, marriage, children and death, his are all penis-this and penis-that. There’s the day he realized he was short-changed, the embarrassing showers in gym class, distracting the women he slept with using dim lighting and sleight-of-hand, and, finally, that wonderful day when trained technicians relocated his abdominal fat. He beams and boasts that he grew from 3 1/4” to 5” in circumference. I get out the calculator again: this guy’s gained 0.5570409 inch increase in diameter, and he’s smiling like Ed McMahon’s running towards him with a giant check.

The second interviewee is wearing big sunglasses and a fake beard but curiously his wife sits undisguised at his side. Both smile. He says, now that I’ve had the operation I’m as happy as a lark. A lark with an enormous penis, his smile says.

Next, a cartoon drawing of a person appears. One arrow points to where the fat will be sucked out, and another points to where the fat will be stuffed in. A line-drawing of a penis appears, resembling a 50’s style kidney-shaped coffee table, but it is too thin to hold many drinks. It doubles in size to show the expected effect of the redistributed fat, and now it’s big enough to hold the lunch buffet at Caesar’s Palace. The video ends without credits for make-up, costuming, or grip.

The letter enclosed with the video instructs me to return it at my convenience to a nearby clinic.

DAY 4: I go to the clinic. The receptionist tells me that the only person who can refund my deposit is out, but will return soon. I take a seat and read a copy of “Travel & Leisure” from 1989. Glancing around the southwestern-style room I wonder if all the visitors think the pink wall sconces look like ceramic vaginas or if it’s just me.

Another customer enters with a World-Class bulge, trousers-wise. I’m about to tell him he’s in the wrong damn place when the receptionist greets him and says the doctor will be with him in a moment. He sits next to me and reads an old “National Geographic,” oblivious to the pink wall vaginas. I sneak a surreptitious glance at his puffy pants, searching for clues. Is he embarrassed and over-stuffing, or is he apres-surgery and swollen? Just as I gather the courage to inquire, the receptionist says they can mail me the deposit refund. I agree and exit, hearing someone on the phone promising the caller “IN BY 10, OUT BY 2”. Hah! If they’re anything like my drycleaner he’ll see Pat Boone in “Naked Boys Singing!” before he gets his dick back.

DAY 5: I scan newspaper ads again, and the male cosmetic surgery advertisements have multiplied like rabbits. One ad is headlined “MEDICAL BREAKTHROUGH” and promises an increase in penis length. I call, and “John” explains the process. The suspensory ligament holds the penis aloft and stable, he says, and for $3000 they’ll slice mine clean in two. As a result my penis, no longer held back, will plop down and out. I could gain two inches, he says, but he also casually mentions the drawbacks: since my penis won’t be held in place it’ll bounce around a bit, and since it won’t be held up it’ll usually point down. This scares me. I wonder if I’ll have to jump and down to get a blowjob.

Other ads leave me more confused than informed. One advertises “injections for erections,” which sounds like bad Cole Porter while being short on details: I mean, does the shot cause erections or cure them? When I’m excited, jabbing a needle in my bits is one of the last things I’d do, right before “Phone Tyne Daly.” Another offers “scrotum enhancement.” Now, Webster’s says “enhancement” is “to make greater in value or attractiveness”. I hear the word a lot when I go to Home Depot or Lumber City, but I can’t think of anything I could do that’d make my balls better looking or increase their resale value.

I spot one ad that offers something called “The Circle Device” that lengthens the penis non-surgically for just $89. I write away.

DAY 6: I receive the information about “The Circle Device”. Though it’s vaguely described, it’s still scary enough to make the Pope cross his legs. “... [A]fter five minutes you will not realize your [sic] wearing it”, and “... their [sic] is virtually no limit to the length you can stretch your penis.” What happens if I forget I’m wearing it and I leave it on too long? Will I have to get a bigger car? “The CIRCLE DEVICE has a unique circular design with a hinge to allow for expansion ... “, “... weighs approximately 10 oz.”, “... will not be noticeable under normal pants.” Pardon me? Something weighing 10 ounces that’s hinged around my penis will not be noticeable? I look around my apartment for something weighing 10 ounces and find only Stouffer’s Frozen Lasagna.

As I stand there trying not to imagine noodles in meat sauce dangling from my penis I wonder why nobody’s offering before-and-after photos. I picture my penis looking like a bald man in a big coat, bouncing around like one of those plastic dogs on the back dashboards of Chevys while I’m in the throes of desire. I wonder if, though “... after five minutes you will not realize your [sic] wearing” the CIRCLE DEVICE, you’ll spend four minutes and fifty-nine seconds stuffing your mouth with everything pill-shaped in your medicine chest.

When I come to, the refrigerator door is still open and lasagna juice is coagulating around my feet.

DAY 7: I remember that tight t-shirts and horizontal stripes make French sailors look big and muscular, so I go to the store to find the tightest striped condoms that money can buy.

Jamie Foxx: Big Dick.

From today's New York Daily News:

Acting opposite Al Pacino means swapping more than dialogue. "When we did 'Any Given Sunday,' I tasted him," Jamie Foxx said at Thursday's American Film Institute tribute to Pacino in Hollywood. "Not in a Ryan Seacrest/Clay Aiken sort of way. … Al would spit so much that I needed a squeegee. I tasted his DNA. But it did me good - I won an Oscar."

Whoa. Now there's a big dick. And not in a Ron Jeremy sort of way.

Wednesday, June 6, 2007

Kelly Ripa does her best to destroy the planet.

I used to drive an old junker, and one day the “Check Engine” light came on. Naturally I got nervous, thinking my car was breaking down. What worried me even more, though, was that I asked three different mechanics what the light meant and I got three different answers.

One said it was probably the exhaust system. Another said it was a timing problem. The third said flat out to ignore it, that it was basically a bright red light that meant nothing. The car ran great for years in this condition, so the latter turns out to have been true.

From what I've discovered since then, the light was designed to be confusing. An OnStar commercial I saw on television confirmed this. Kelly Ripa is alone in her Yukon Denali, looking Geico lizard-size in the enormous cab. She frowns and hits a button on her dashboard.

DISEMBODIED MALE VOICE: “OnStar. How may I help you, Ms. Ripa?”

KELLY RIPA: “I’m not having a great day, and now my ‘Check Engine’ light is on.”

DISEMBODIED MALE VOICE: “I’ll download the information from your Yukon Denali and check it out right away. (Pause.) Here it is. It says your gas cap is unlatched. Did you fill up recently?”

Kelly sighs and pokes her head out the window. Her gas cap is unlatched.


Now, there are several thousand reasons to hate this commercial. One is a little obscure. In all the OnStar commercials where someone gets in an accident, it’s a woman who answers the call. Because women are so reassuring and maternal, you know. When it comes to mechanical stuff, though, a man answers, because that's all men’s work. I don’t know how they do it, but evidently OnStar can predict what their customers are calling about and automatically select the right person to talk to them. Why, I’ll bet if a child summoned them, they'd put Mr. Rogers on the line.

My big problem, though, is this: In what universe does “CHECK ENGINE” mean “YOUR GAS CAP IS UNLATCHED”? What kind of idiot car designer decides they need to warn drivers that their gas cap is unlatched by telling them THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH THEIR ENGINE? It seems to me "Check Engine" is more likely to mean "YOUR CAR'S GOING TO EXPLODE!" than "Um, your gas cap is off!" And what if you’ve got a Yukon Denali that doesn’t have OnStar, like 99% of them? You’re going to drive around in a cold sweat until you find a mechanic to tell you it's okay.

As for Ms. Ripa driving a Denali, that takes the Stupid cake, considering a helium balloon could carry this stick figure around. According to, the Denali is “as big as the great outdoors” and “gulps fuel like an F-16, barely managing 14 mpg in mixed city and urban-highway driving.” The Denali’s greenhouse gas emissions are 14 tons per year. That’s the equivalent of two-and-a-half Honda Civics, and just short of falling off the end of their scale.

Driving one of these things, then, it’s no wonder the gas cap is unlatched. In fact, Ms. Ripa could probably save half an hour a day just leaving the thing unlatched full-time. If the “Check Engine” light made her nervous, she could summon OnStar again.

I’ll bet Anna Nicole Smith’s doctor would automatically answer the phone.

Monday, June 4, 2007

Notes on a Sick Movie. Spoilers.

I'm only about two years behind the times. I just upgraded to Mac OS X, I just got the first Interpol CD, and I just watched "Notes on a Scandal" with Cate Winslett and Judi Dench.

Jeez, what a piece of crap this is. There hasn't been a more offensive movie made in the last five years, and I'm including Mel Gibson's work.

Cate Winslett is a young, beautiful, rich, married heterosexual who decides to teach because she's bored. Within minutes of showing up at school, she's sleeping with a 15-year-old boy, and has ugly old lesbian Judi Dench surgically attached at her waist.

Beautiful heterosexual Cate takes pity on ugly old lesbian Judi, and they become friends. Judi finds out about the affair and promises not to tell anyone, but when her cat dies -- c'mon, you thought an ugly old lesbian wouldn't have a cat? -- and Cate isn't sympathetic, Judi feels betrayed and tells. Crap hits fan.

On paper, this sounds pretty simple. Doesn't sound like Judi is the villain. She is.

Early on, Cate's teenage daughter yells at Judi. "Get lost, you old crone!" she snaps. "Why don't you go home?" Judi is confused, because up to this point all she's done is:

1. Been friendly.
2. Gone to Cate's home when invited.
3. Been an ugly old lesbian.

We're not supposed to wonder, because obviously (3) is motive enough. When the cat dies and Judi comes in search of sympathy, Daughter screams again. This time, rather than sending her to her room without dinner, Dad joins in. Cate doesn't tell them to stuff it. She'll "handle" Judi, she says. "Handle" the ugly old lesbian. As opposed to saying something like "She's my friend and her cat died. What the f*** is wrong with you two?"

Cate is fired, and Judi too. There's not much justification: she knew about the affair, the principal claims. Hard to believe he thinks this'll stand up in court, but we're not supposed to care, since Judi is a UOL. Cate's husband throws her out, and Cate asks Judi if she can move in. Since she's rich, this must mean she likes Judi, despite the fact she won't defend her. The press finds out and camps in front of Judi's house. Every time they see Judi, they call her names. (If anybody can recognize a UOL, it's newsmen.) Judi strokes Cate's arm, Cate freaks out, Judi talks about their "relationship" and Cate denies they have one. Yeah, they're just passing strangers/roommates.

Cate goes to jail, and when she's released her husband takes her back. Judi rises again, like Freddy Krueger. The last scene shows her on a park bench with another naive, pretty woman. We scream at the screen to defend heterosexual innocence, and we shudder as the movie ends.

Me, I'm masochistic: I can't wait for a sequel. Maybe in "Notes on a Halloween Scandal" Judi could attach herself to Jamie Lee Curtis, and battle Jason. Maybe in "Notes on an Alien Scandal" she could pester Sigourney Weaver, and have the Alien burst out of her stomach. Regardless how bad it is, though, I have to admit that we're making some progress. We've come a long way since "Basic Instinct."

We're putting our lesbian bitches in underwear now.

High in Colorado.

A couple weeks ago published a story about how some Colorado Springs residents are fed up with the city’s homophobic reputation. “Mike Kazmierski [of the] Colorado Springs Economic Development Corp . . . wants the world -- and investors -- to know that Colorado Springs has had a change of homo-heart: ‘We're really very diverse. . . . If we can get [people] to come visit our town, Colorado Springs sells itself.’”

I added a comment to the Queerty article about my personal experience: that it’s not just gays who are unwelcome in Colorado Springs. A hetero friend of mine from Los Angeles (a Buddhist Caucasian married to an Asian woman) moved there, and almost immediately moved back. He thought it’d be a family-oriented environment where he could raise a family, but he quickly discovered everybody different is shunned.

"Deb" added a hopeful note to my comment. “It's changing, but slowly,” she said. “Give us credit for trying! We are NOT all those people you hear about. Come to our Cultural/Diversity Festival in August!

Well, Deb, sorry but I’m not going to make it. After I posted my thoughts on Queerty, I received the following big purple email. 


Now, ordinarily I write off angry email, but this isn’t just from some yahoo. It’s on business letterhead, from a company founder and chairman. It includes his work address and phone number, as well as a glowing P. R. blurb and a link to their website. Checking there, it’s obvious the man is important. In fact, he’s the patriarch of one of Colorado Spring’s fine, upstanding families, and one of their most successful businessmen.

Which prompts a few thoughts.

1. This email is relatively rude, calling me a sinner, yet it includes his company information. Is he thinking that expressing hatred can turn into a business opportunity?

2. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
Um, dude, you must have found my blog to get my email address. You should know I’ll be the spokesman for stupid before I’m a spokesman for the gay community. I've never heard of Amendment 2 or "Perkins." I’ve never said everybody should be gay, though maybe it'd help me find a date. And personally, I don’t want to be left alone. I want equal rights.

3. For such an upright, heterosexual guy, he sure does like big purple type.

4. It seems odd that one of the city’s most distinguished residents is telling me and my gay friends to move away. That would be difficult, since we’re not there.

But, you know, maybe I just have a bad attitude. Maybe Colorado Springs should be proud. I mean, in New York you’d pay a fortune to get advice from accomplished businessmen, yet a pillar of their society is offering it for free.

Friday, June 1, 2007

MTV Presents Supersize the Band.

One thing that distinguishes New York from other cities is the weirdness you run into. Go for a walk through Bryant Park one night and you'll find David Blaine standing atop a forty-foot pole. Wander Times Square and discover Criss Angel encased in a block of ice. And, for the next few weeks, head down to the Hudson and see a rock group encased inside a giant bubble.

A security guard told me it's a publicity stunt for a band called Cartel. They'll live in the bubble for twenty days, supposedly to write and record their new record. I plopped down in a chair to watch them, and discovered something really weird. They're trying to publicize a rock band, yet the bubble is soundproof.

Now, this strikes me as pretty stupid. There are thousands of potential fans visiting these guys, but we can't hear a note they play. We sit there and watch them like a silent movie. We see them fiddling with their instruments, but not one plink filters out.

More important than the music, evidently, is the advertising. The bubble is covered with signs for multinational corporations: Dr. Pepper. KFC. Wal-Mart. Pretty much a laundry list of bastards. Hoping the band's cool will help erase their bad reputations.

KFC actually claimed fried chicken was part of a low-carb diet. Until they bowed to public pressure, one meal there gave you three days worth of trans fat. Wal-Mart is famous for paying its workers so badly they still qualify for welfare, and routinely locked their cleaning crews in their stores to make sure they wouldn't scurry off. Dr. Pepper isn't any worse than any other soda, but it's still just flavored sugar water.

To be fair, the band seemed nice. While I was there, they gave a street kid part of their dinner. They signed autographs for some teenage girls from Staten Island celebrating a birthday. But they're responsible for their marketing, and the companies they're selling truly suck.

Instaed of letting the cool rub off on the contemptible, then, let's do it the other way around. Let the bad reputations rub off on Cartel. Because, apparently, this is a band that couldn't care less about its fans.

Right before I left, they got a delivery from KFC, which they naturally washed down with Dr. Pepper. The scene struck me as familiar, until I realized it was straight out of "Supersize Me." In that movie, Morgan Spurlock ate junk food for a month, three times a day, until his internal organs started to fail.

I don't know how Cartel's stunt is going to end. Maybe they'll come up with a great new record. Maybe they'll make millions of new fans. But maybe their kidneys will shut down.

If I were them, I'd talk to my Public Relations guy. Maybe it's not too late to stand on a pole.