Sunday, July 31, 2016


It is a fact, universally acknowledged, that when two gay men want to have a three-way with you, only one is going to be hot. At the Eagle on Friday night I politely greet the Tiny Admirers -- the little folk who swarm around the ridiculously tall man when he walks into a gay bar, who are thankfully dispatched with a quick hug or shake of their tiny hands -- and venture further into the dark bar to prove the old adage true.

I spot a sturdy 40ish man with two of my top ten Hot Dude accessories: eyeglasses and a goatee. I sit down next to him on the long wooden bench and do what I do best, which is feign indifference.

He fills in the gap. "Hi," he says. "I am Orlando."

His voice is low and melodic, and without warning snow-white doves circle my head and butterflies drop pansies in my lap. "Orlando," I repeat in my head. It doesn't get much better than that -- a historical, romantic name borrowed from a Virginia Woolf novel. I look again at his eyeglasses and goatee and now he looks even hotter, his intelligence edged with a smoky foreign flair.

While I'm sucking in the details he gestures toward a shorter, thicker figure who slowly sidles into frame. "And this is my partner, Jeff."

Jeff. This is Jeff. The cheeping little birds around my head crash and die at my feet. Orlando sees my face fall and moves in for damage control. "We have an arrangement," he says. "We have been together forever, and we are realistic about our needs. In fact, we probably only see each other once a week."

That's reassuring, I think, though it's a bummer that this week's meeting has to happen while I'm around. But I look back at Orlando and Jeff vanishes from my brain.

"I am from the Dominican Republic," Orlando says. "Have you ever been there?"

I shake my head and mentally catalog more manly details. His hair is thick, his shoulders are broad, and his torso has an athletic V shape. I slide over until we are touching and I feel his wiry arm hair scratch mine. "It is such a beautiful place I know you will love it," he continues. "One day you must go and experience the tranquil life and the delicious food but most of all, the hospitality of the most wonderful people on earth."

I'm hooked. Absent-mindedly I send a hand to the bottom of his shorts to explore the hair on his legs. "I've always wanted to go there," I say, despite the fact that it's somewhere around Poland in my mental list of Places To Go. "How long have you been in America?"

"Fifteen years. And America is my home. But there is a hole in my heart that it can never fill."

I'm seconds away from offering to fill whatever he's got when Jeff walks up, grabs my hand, and places it on his rather undistinguished waistline. I'm at a loss: what is he expecting here? I thwart his hope of an appreciative rub in favor of the quick squeeze and drop that one gives an overripe avocado. With my hand back against Orlando I offer Jeff a smile that's just slightly tempered by the "Get the fuck away from me!" look shooting out of my eyes.

He gets the message and backs away with a hurt look. "I thought you had an arrangement," I say to Orlando.

"We do," he says. "We don't even live together. He lives in Poughkeepsie, and I live on the Upper West Side."

That seems like an odd sort of couple, I think -- if in fact you can be a couple in a situation like that. "And that's okay with both of you?" I ask. "When I have a partner, I want to go to sleep with him, and get up in the morning with him." This syndrome has been dubbed "The RomanHans Paradox" by the American Psychiatric Association, referring to anyone who wants to marry a rich, powerful businessman who'll also wake up next to them just slightly after noon.

"We like our space. We have a lot of different interests. We like our free time."

"Well, okay," I say, unconvinced. "I guess that could work."

We move even closer together as Orlando conspires to paint a romantic picture in my head. "In the Dominican Republic there is the most beautiful mountain you will ever see. It is covered with banana trees and twisting red vines, shaded by a verdant canopy in every shade of mottled green. Every once in a while you will spot a Golden Warbler, the most beautiful songbird. They say the first one lost his partner in a monsoon, and now all of his descendants repeat his song of eternal love tinged with unbearable heartache."

Tears are welling in my eyes when Jeff comes up and rubs his hand against my chest. This isn't the first time it's happened, since I regularly go to the gym, and there I'm a little flexible about my response. It's okay if lesser-attractive guys feel me up while talking about sets and reps, but when the focus turns to nipple I'm out.

Orlando sees my pique, notes the new action and shrugs. "Jeff is Cuban," he says. "Cubans are very determined."

I don't mind this reply: it's gentlemanly and understanding, whereas my first impulse would be to spray Jeff with a garden hose. I remove his hand and push it back to his side, whereupon he retreats. It doesn't help that he just moves a few steps away to resume staring at us, but that buys us enough freedom for our talk to resume.

"You must go to Punta Cana," Orlando continues, "where you ride on horseback across a white-sand beach edged by a forest of palm trees. At night you and your partner recline under a palm-thatched umbrella with tropical drinks to toast your love."

The ocean and candlelight are materializing in my head when once again Jeff feels left out. He moves in front of me and, without a word, starts rubbing his crotch against my knee. Though knees aren't one of the body's top fifty sensory organs, mine unmistakably identifies a mid-sized, rock-hard penis. I'm not sure why Jeff thinks this will win me over. It's the bar equivalent of an unsolicited dick pic. In this case, it's also like tossing all of your chips in the pot when you're holding a six and a two.

"No," I finally snap, like I'm talking to a particularly stupid Golden Retriever. "That's enough. I am not interested in you. I don't like you, I'm not attracted to you, and I don't like you touching me."

He backs away again, and suddenly it hits me: I've taken all I'm going to take. Yes, Orlando is hot. Hot and sexy and knee-deep in a marital mess. "This isn't going to work," I announce to Orlando. "I'm sorry. You seem like a really great guy."

He shrugs again, like this isn't the first time this has happened, and he understands. We share a sad, lingering kiss, with maybe a little goatee rub and Goodbye Hot Arm Hair grope thrown in. I spin on my heels and aim for the door when I catch Jeff's expression. It's sad. Disappointed. Upset. He clearly doesn't know what hit him, and all of a sudden it hits me: is Jeff really a consensual participant in this "arrangement"? Is he its instigator or its victim? And aren't I punishing him because of his looks? Aren't I being one of those shallow bar assholes that everybody complains about?

And how about that name, "Orlando"? I'll bet he wasn't even named after a Virginia Woolf novel: his parents probably fucked at Disney World.

I walk over to Jeff and put my arms around him. "I'm sorry," I say with heartfelt sincerity. "It was really good to meet you. You seem like a really nice guy." He looks up at me with puppy dog eyes, and when I move in to give him a farewell kiss, he jams his tongue in my mouth.

Friday, July 15, 2016

Emma is desperate to know about my date with The German Guy Who Is Taller Than Me, so the knock on the door comes literally three seconds after his exit. "Did you kiss him?" she asks. "Who started it?"

"We spent the whole time standing in the middle of my apartment," I say. "We talked for about twenty minutes and finally I just leaned in towards him. He backed away like he thought I was trying to walk past him, but then he realized what was up and he moved in. We must have kissed for half an hour."

"Yes!" she says, nearly high-fiving me. "What did he do with his tongue? Did he run it along your teeth or up inside of your lips?"

"It was mostly poking into my mouth. There wasn't much I could do other than just kind of suck on it."

"OHMIGOD! That is so hot. So you stood there making out, fully clothed?"

"Well, at some point our shirts came off."

"NO!" she screams. "You're kidding! You took your shirt off?"

I glare at her in disbelief. "Yeah, I just randomly decided to tear it off while saying, 'Wait'll you get a load of this!'" She shoots me a look of apology. "He took off my shirt. First my polo shirt, then my t-shirt. And then he took off his shirt."

"YES!" she shouts. "That is so FREAKIN' hot!"

"And we keep making out while we're pressing our bodies together, all hot and sweaty, with our hands running up and down each other. And then he slowly, forcefully backs me up against the wall, and with one of his hands he grabs both of my wrists and pins them over my head."


I stare at her until she comes to her senses. She says, "It's kind of nice when the guy is dom once in a while."

Thursday, July 7, 2016

Eric Trump Backs His Father's Suggestion That Ivanka Should Be Vice President

On Thursday Eric Trump agreed with Republican suggestions that his sister Ivanka Trump could be a potential running mate for his father's presidential bid. “She’s got the beautiful looks," he told Fox News, "and she’s smart, smart, smart. She’s certainly got my vote.”

Trump noted that his sister will turn 35 just before the election, which is the minimum age required by the Constitution to be president or vice president. “She just makes that by about seven, eight days,” he said, calling his sister “a machine.”

"That is really sweet of him," Ivanka replies when reached for comment. "I don't know if I'd be a good vice president, but Eric would be an amazing cabinet member. He's so handsome he'd have both parties crossing the aisle."

"I'm flattered," admits Eric, "but Ivanka is incredible. "She runs three miles a day on unbelivably shapely legs. She could easily run the country."

Ivanka blushes slightly as she pushes back her glossy blonde hair. "I'd rather be in Eric's hands," she reveals. "His biceps are gigantic. Even when he's covered in warm, sticky sweat you can hardly get your hands around them."

Eric's eyes slide down Ivanka's sleek form and he inhales sharply. "God didn't make anybody close to Ivanka," he finally reveals. "She's got that big old butt you need to hang on to if the economy is gonna take a real pounding."

Ivanka reddens slightly as her aureolas stiffen. "Eric has the smooth, muscular chest that says he's a civilized man, but in the center there's this thick thatch of chest hair that says, 'I may be a man but I'm also an animal, and if I wanna fuck you then I'm gonna fuck you.""

Eric is flustered but won't be stopped. "Ivanka's got these thick, pillowy lips that every guy wants to see in action," he says. "She could filibuster for a hundred thousand years and nobody would tell her to shut up. I'll bet half the congressmen would jump outta their seats and say, 'Bitch, you need to take care of daddy over here!'"

Ivanka can't take any more. She flings herself against her brother like somebody who's spotted a black guy at a Trump rally. "Oh Eric!" she moans, flattening her heaving bosom against her brother's pinstriped suit.

"Oh, Ivanka baby!" Eric gasps as he struggles to undo his pants. "Oh baby, baby, baby. I don't think I've got the patience for Congress but I'll be Secretary of your Interior any day."

Eric picks up Ivanka and effortlessly lifts her up onto a nearby desk, shoving pencils and Chik-Fil-A menus flying. He slides her skirt up to her hips, exposing a thin pink slip and soft flesh. "C'mon, baby!" he begs. "Open up them drawers like Hillary opened the embassy in Benghazi."


He's thrusting his firm pelvis against her sleek torso when suddenly she raises her arms to make him stop. "Wait," she protests through sweaty locks. "We can't. This is wrong!"

Eric's hurt eyes lock on hers and the intimate glance they exchange says far more than words. "You mean you're bleeding out of your whatever?" he asks, and she nods.

Donald Trump shrugs. "Aren't they amazing kids?" he asks, and then he starts talking about Mexicans again.


Tuesday, July 5, 2016

Fourth of July Party

SCENE: Rooftop, four floors above Williamsburg, Brooklyn, renowned/reviled as the Hipster Capital of the World. Hundreds of people mill around waiting for the Macy's fireworks to start and snacking from various picnic tables loaded with food brought by various occupants of the building. Somebody introduces me to a thirty-ish couple accompanied by a small child.

ME: I should probably warn you about the Jello shots. There's Ecstasy in them.

WOMAN: You are kidding me. That's incredibly irresponsible. There are children here! We live on the Upper West Side, and the first drug our little Tatum should try is cocaine.