Bush vs. Putin: Who's the Man?

Holy Jesus, a political figure takes off his shirt and suddenly the whole world goes crazy.

Vladimir Putin, the president of Russia, recently went on vacation to Siberia, and he went fishing with Prince Albert of Monaco. Maybe he got wet, or maybe he was just enjoying the sunshine, but for whatever reason he decided to doff his shirt.



And the entire world went nuts.

All of Russia is now in a tumult, a hundred forty-one million people in a state of shock. Women and girls are literally tearing their hair out after witnessing the brawny muscularity of the man in charge. Pravda, the country's leading newspaper, is printing photos Playgirl would reject as dicey, and fans of beefcake are stampeding news racks for glimpses of more exposed Putin flesh.

Now, some might say this reflects badly on our own president, who refuses to show any skin. Maybe he's shy; maybe he's got an "I Love Jeff Gannon" tattoo he doesn't want to bare to the world. Either way, I say to hell with them! Anybody can bench press. Anybody can do some dumbbell curls. But I hereby throw down a challenge to the Russians:

How does their man look in a dress?



Russia Goes Nuts Over Shirtless Putin

Far From Sunset

The first time I saw Erik I was watching TV. My apartment overlooked the parking lot of his apartment building, and there he was, washing a Ford Explorer. He was big and butch as Hoss Cartwright's left testicle, his rock-hard bulk making the truck look petite. I grabbed a book so I could pretend I was reading and raced out to the balcony. I watched while he scrubbed and dried and waxed, with every muscle of his body getting a vigorous workout. When he finished we were both sweaty and spent.

We repeated the scene the next Saturday and I started to wonder why he didn't notice me. Trucks aren't all that fascinating, plus I'm reasonably hot, so it's not like there wasn't a reason to look. The next week I decided to give him something to look at: I went to May Company and bought myself a pair of little red shorts.

Unfortunately, by the time I came home he was nearly finished. I threw on the shorts, raced out onto the balcony, and casually flexed. That did the trick. He looked up at me and squinted as he surreptitiously checked out my package. "Don't know why I bother washing it," he declared, tilting his head toward his truck. "I give it such a workout it's hard to keep it clean."

It seems like that's a game that attractive people play: making perfectly innocent lines sound erotic.

"I hear ya," I said as I casually draped across the railing. "Sometimes I wish mine was black so I wouldn't see how filthy it gets."

I've never been good at games.

He tossed his sponge into the bucket and waved goodbye, dimples appearing that could have sheltered a Shih Tzu. As he walked away I sighed in appreciation: the man was a perfect V-shape, with huge shoulders, big chest, medium waist, small hips. The masochistic side of my brain took a mental picture so I'd have something to compare myself to. It's like saving the photo when you clip a recipe from Bon Appetit.

I didn't have to wait long before I saw him again. I was at work, tending bar at a dive on Ventura Boulevard, when he strolled in. The crowd went silent, hands flew up to mouths, hundreds of cellphones came out.

Evidently he wasn't just the boy next door.

"What's up?" I whispered to a regular. "I know he's gorgeous, but this is crazy."

"Riiiight," he replied. "Like you don't know. That's Erik Daniels, the porn star. But you don't watch dirty movies."

Actually, I didn't. A producer asked me to be in a film once, but it turned out to be a secondary role. Instead of being the star, or even doing the star, I'd be watching from the sidelines. I'd be some random voyeur standing there masturbating while muttering inane things like, "Man, that's so freakin' hot!"

Naturally I was insulted. I was young, fit, attractive. There was no reason I couldn't have been front and center. It was like asking Angelina Jolie to be Mrs. Caveman in a Geico commercial. I said "No, thanks" with all the sarcasm I could muster, and ever since I've had a vineyard full of sour grapes.

Erik sidled up to the bar and ordered a Bud, and we exchanged smoldering glances. Then somebody asked me for a drink, somebody asked him for an autograph, and that was it. We never reconnected. An hour or so later he disappeared and so did most of the crowd.

The bar emptied out completely around midnight, so I closed up and went home. Deep inside a dream I heard knocking that quickly turned into a pound. It continued after I woke up, and I realized somebody was at my front door. I threw on a robe, stumbled over to it and opened it just a crack.

There, right in front of me, was every gay man's fantasy: a half-naked porn star wearing a come-hither look. He had on a vest over his bare chest, leather cuffs on both arms, chaps over levis, and motorcycle boots. "Hey," he said, exhaling liquored breath that could have caught fire, "are you busy?"

Busy? BUSY? I was doing what everybody does at that time of the morning: dreaming a chicken burrito was chasing me in a big foil car. Now, maybe I'm weird, but I'm not horny when I'm asleep. I'm totally, perfectly content. Chicken burritos don't give me raging hardons, so when I wake up I'm not exactly lusting after men.

"Yeah," I replied. "I am. It's not a very good time."

"Oh," he said, his face falling. Then "Oh! You already got somebody in there?"

"Yup," I said, grabbing at the excuse. He gave me a half-hearted thumb's up, then retreated down the hall.

Now, as I lay there trying to get back to sleep, it suddenly hit me how egotistical he was. Sure, he was a porn star, but even they got turned down by lines other than "Of course I'd do you, but I've already got a dick on hand, thanks!" Then my eyes flew open. Wait, I thought -- it's two-fifteen. The bars close at two and they're fifteen minutes away -- meaning he struck out and then thought, "Hey, I can always have sex with that guy next door."

It wasn't just annoying: it was insulting. I was stuck at second fiddle again. I lay awake for hours, fuming, and when the sun came up I had a plan. I'd see how he liked the shoe on the other foot.

The next night I didn't have to work so I got totally stinking drunk, then I stumbled to his door at two-fifteen. I'd rumpled my shirt and dribbled beer on my pants, so it looked like I'd been to all the bars. I pounded on his door, barely able to stand upright, and when it swung open there he was. Shirtless and pantsless, clad only in a jockstrap.

"Hey, are you busy?" I slurred, suffusing the line with condescension.

Erik missed it, his expression morphing from piqued to prurient. "No, not at all," he said, ushering me inside. I followed him to the bedroom and he introduced me to Stan, a naked, tattooed guy who was tied to the bed.

"Hi," I said. "Hi," Stan said. "Do you want to fuck him?" Erik asked.

Though I was a bit taken aback, I thought it was a really nice offer. It almost made me forget how angry I was: I mean, I'd dropped by people's houses before and rarely even got offered a beer. Could I? I wondered. I shook my head sadly. I could barely handle the pressure when I was alone. "Well, I'm kind of drunk, but maybe later."

Stan's face fell, and Erik looked disappointed.

I swayed. I staggered. I yanked down my pants.

I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.

"Roots," Boots, and Big Galoots: William Joyce

William Joyce was over seven feet tall and renowned for his startling strength. In 1699 King William of England invited him to Kensington Palace for a live demonstration. William told the king he could lift a ton, so the king had weights made to test him. He nearly yanked his arms out of their sockets, but he lifted the weight cleanly off the ground.

The pair went for a walk so William could catch his breath, and the king pointed to tree that must have been five yards around. William boasted that he could pull it completely out of the ground, roots and all, and the king called his bluff. It sapped every last bit of his strength, but he succeeded.

While waiting for his carriage to return home, William bragged that wild horses couldn't move him. Naturally this gave the king another idea. He tied a stableful of horses to William, and though he whipped and whipped them, and they nearly tore William in two, they couldn't get the poor man to budge. He died soon after.

The lesson for tall people here is, if you ever get to meet royalty, it's best to just shut up and smile.

Parts of Kensington Palace are open to the public, but there's no mention of William anywhere. Kensington Palace Information Line +44 (0) 870 751 5170

"Roots," Boots and Big Galoots: Charles Byrne

Charles Byrne was eight foot two, and all the rage in London. "[N]either the tongue of the most florid orator, or pen of the most ingenious writer," one newspaper declared in the purple prose of our grandparents' time, "can sufficiently describe the elegance, symmetry, and proportion of this wonderful phenomenon in nature, and that all description must fall infinitely short of giving that satisfaction which may be obtained on a judicious inspection."

Why this guy didn't end up naked in a glass case I'll never know.

Charles liked to drink, and one night while he was on a bender a pickpocket stole his wallet. He got depressed and died at the age of twenty-two.

Every doctor in the country fought to get his body, bidding with the undertaker like he was Elvis' pink Cadillac. Charles, though, had made his plans perfectly clear: he wanted to be buried at sea. He nearly got his wish, but when his coffin was dumped into the water there were more than a few anxious folks watching from nearby boats. And some just happened to be outfitted with scuba gear.

These people didn't recover the body, but only because somebody else had beaten them to it. One of the doctors had been successful with his bribe, and the body had been swapped with paving stones before it went out to sea. Charles' new owner cut him up and boiled him in a big pot until the bones were clean -- if he'd been a chicken, they'd have been halfway toward soup -- then put his skeleton on display. He was eventually donated to a London University, where he's available for viewing five days a week.

Royal College of Surgeons, Hunterian Museum, 35-43 Lincoln's Inn Fields, London, England. Open Monday to Friday 10-5. Admission free.

Ram Tough

We know exactly two things about all those oversized American trucks: one, they burn through enormous amounts of gasoline. Two, they're driven by men with small dicks. Or is there some other explanation for why the truck names are indistinguishable from the brand names of penis pumps? Here's a list of a few of each: see if you can tell them apart.

a. Grand Stallion
b. Nitro
c. Ramrod
d. Sport Trac Adrenalin
e. Red Studmaster
f. Explorer
g. Magnum
h. Gladiator
i. Ranger
j. Commando
k. Power Man 6000
l. F-250 Super Duty

Answers: b, d, f, i and l are American trucks. a, c, e, g, j and k are penis pumps. h is both. Here's more information on them for all the small-dicked dudes out there.

a. The Grand Stallion has a tapered latex sleeve and easy-to-use gliding action

b. The Dodge Nitro is powered by a 4.0 L SOHC V6 engine rather than AA batteries.

c. The Ramrod has a battery pack conveniently attached for single-handed operation.

d. The Ford Sport Trac Adrenalin has a blown 4.6 engine making 390 pound-feet of torque.

e. The Red Studmaster has a studded adjustable cock ring.

f. The Ford Explorer is available in an Eddie Bauer edition.

g. The Magnum is equipped with a new safety vacuum gauge.

h. With a three-foot clearance, the Jeep Gladiator could easily clear anybody's penis. The silicone Gladiator is red and has internal nubs.

i. The Ford Ranger has a towing capacity of 4,200 penis pumps.

j. The Commando is penis-shaped, with a multi-speed vibrating bullet. We told our boyfriend we don't know even what that means.

k. You can use the Power Man 6000 with or without the pleasure ring attachment. Storage bag included.

l. The Ford F-250 Super Duty is twenty feet long. We bet its owners claim it's twenty-five.

Queen Latifah Loves Her Fans

"I wouldn't be here without my fans," Queen Latifah says on her MySpace page.

"And I also won't perform for less than seventy-five bucks per person, with an additional ten-dollar minimum at the tables."

(She's coming to the Highline Ballroom.)

"Roots," Boots and Big Galoots: Edouard Beaupré

Ever since he was a kid Edouard Beaupré wanted to be a cowboy. He loved horses, and all he wanted to do was ride them every day of his life. Unfortunately ole Bullet couldn't pick up much speed with Ed's feet dragging on the ground, so his dream went up in smoke. He was 8' 2" and weighed four hundred pounds at the age of twenty-one.

With no other prospects Edouard joined a freak show and went on tour. Now instead of riding horses across vast green pastures he lifted them over his head in tents. He died of tuberculosis at the age of 23.

Since he was a celebrity of sorts, he had an agent, and those guys don't let death spoil their plans. The agent had him mummified and the tour continued. At some point he took a detour, though, and he vanished off the face of the earth until 1907, when some kids found him rotting in a warehouse.

People jumped out of the woodworks to claim him, like he was a treasure chest full of gold, but the University of Montreal won. They said they wanted him for research, but that meant preserving him like a ham and displaying him in a glass case, naked.

You should probably think twice about donating your body to these people.

The University finally let relatives take the body in 1989. He'd been so heavily treated, though, that doctors said he'd never decay, and his relatives were afraid he'd be dug up and put back on tour. They had him cremated, some eighty-five years after his death.

See the ashes near his statue in front of the Willow Bunch Museum, Saskatchewan, Canada. They're average-sized, so they won't touring soon.

Google Your Way to Me

You might not know this, but there are tools that let me see how you found my page. Some of you found their way through Gawker, others from blog links or email from friends, but a healthy share were pointed here by Google. I was a bit startled to discover that maybe a fifth of my readers got here by Googling one of these phrases:

spanking the monkey

suck my toes

big feet big meat

rachael ray fan

bathroom spanking

ass come gay eat shrimping

i want my boyfriend to cross his legs

have sex with rich gay men

studded leather jockstrap

throbbing crotch

Honestly, this list gives me the creeps. Imagine, working for hours and hours on my writing, editing and polishing it until it sparkles like a diamond, and then discovering it's being read by Rachael Ray fans.

"Roots," Boots, and Big Galoots

No matter how bad it gets for the tall guy, things certainly could be worse. Maybe we provoke curious stares on the subway and startled screams in dark alleys, but there's one thing that we can count on for reassurance: it'll cool down considerably once we're dead.

This was far from the case in the past.

Just a few short years ago, a tall man's calendar wasn't cleared by something as trivial as dying. Those Tall Man Fans who stared openmouthed as we blithely wandered Main Street were more than happy to fork over their hard-earned cash to see our corpses. Death, in fact, made the crowds larger. Now that we were preserved, we couldn't escape. We couldn't protest. We couldn't bitch-slap some sense into their peabrained heads.

While the modern-day giant can look forward to an eternity of peace under a luxuriant carpet of grass, his predecessors were busier than Liza Minnelli. They were mummified whole or their skeletons were boiled clean, and they were strapped to the cabooses of circus trains or stapled to the wall of libraries. Maybe lying motionless at Gentle Breezes Family Cemetery doesn't strike you as a great way to spend a Saturday, but it beats the hell out of being pinned spreadeagle next to the skeleton of a two-headed chipmunk, and an endless line of tourists muttering, "Whoa! That dude was freakin' tall!"

Inspired by "Roots," "The Immigrants," and "Gangs of New York," I decided to go in search of my own heritage: those brave men who in their own time were also flamingos in a world of sparrows. While the average person researching their family history will trek to their country of origin and explore ancient homes and graveyards, our quest leads to freak shows and the dusty backrooms of obscure museums. Over the next few days I'll write a bit about some giants I discovered, and where you can pay your respects.

Saturday in New York

Saturday was passive-aggressive day here in New York.

I was blithely wandering around enjoying the unseasonal coolness when I ran into a street fair. It was sponsored by a soup kitchen, judging by the signs asking for donations, and one booth had a big tureen presumably to toss money in. Having an income lower than my IQ, I steered clear -- in fact, I started to wonder if maybe they had a little leftover soup or crust of bread to help a brother out.

I got about halfway through the fair when a fiftyish woman approached me. "Would you like to know more about the soup kitchen?" she asked, waving a brochure at me. Obviously she'd end with a plea for money, so I said no thanks.

She shook her head. "So tall. And such a closed mind. How did you get to be like that?"

I'm thinking by the end of the day she refined her approach to something like, "Gimme cash for the poor, buttwipe!"

I'm always annoyed by folks who criticize something but refuse to name the miscreant, so here are the gory details:

Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen

The theme continued at dinner. All my friends know how much I love fish tacos, so one gave me a gift certificate to Agave, an upscale Mexican restaurant on Seventh Avenue South, for my birthday. "Upscale" anything irritates me -- I prefer "authentic" or "unpretentious" -- but it's the thought that counts. Still, I knew something was wrong when I heard waiters assure two terrified people that no beans would appear on their plates.

I invited an old friend I hadn't seen in a while, thinking it'd be fun to catch up. I said I was going to order the tofu enchiladas and he was horrified. "She gave you that gift certificate to get fish tacos! You HAVE to get the fish tacos!" So I did, and they were awful.

I told him and he laughed. "Well, what did you expect?" he said. "You can't get good fish tacos in New York."

Steaming Pile of "Stardust"

"Stardust," the new film starring Claire Danes and Michelle Pfeiffer, is an intelligence test. If at any point during the film you find yourself laughing, enjoying yourself, or feeling anything stronger than a mild diversion, you aren't quite ready for the seventh grade.

"Stardust" isn't the work of a writer: it's a string of hackneyed cliches concocted by a profoundly uncreative, "Harry Potter"-cribbing dentist in between shaping porcelain crowns. It should be viewed only by children, the elderly, or those unfortunate souls whose favorite books include passages like "and then the unicorn burst through the door and scared all the pirates away."

I went to a screening last night, where the movie's massive stupidity was foreshadowed by (I presume) a Paramount rep. Before introducing the film, she announced a contest. "I have a gift certificate for $100 at the Cornelia Cafe," she declared, "for the first person to name four famous people in the film. Raise your hands!"

One by one the hands shot up. The first person called upon was tentative: "Um, Claire Danes, Michelle Pfeiffer, Robert DeNiro, and. . . . " Paramount Rep counted to ten, then called her for time.

The second contestant didn't fare any better. "Claire Danes, Michelle Pfeiffer, Robert DeNiro, and Farfel Garfney," he said, attempting that "forgot the name" mumble one sees on UPN sitcoms. He too was counted wrong.

The third contestant was confident. "Claire Danes, Michelle Pfeiffer, Robert DeNiro, and Peter O'Toole," she declared excitedly, sure the gift certificate was hers.

"No!" Paramount Rep answered. "Anybody else?"

Third Contestant was confused. "But Peter O'Toole is in the film, right? Isn't he in the film?" Paramount Rep had moved on, though, so the question went unanswered and Third Contestant confined her mutterering to herself.

"I know!" the fourth contestant said happily. "Claire Danes, Michelle Pfeiffer, Robert DeNiro, and Sienna Miller," she said.

"That's right!" Paramount Rep declared, handing over the gift certificate. "Sienna Miller."

Third Contestant leapt to her feet. "Peter O'Toole is in the movie, right?" she snapped. "Why didn't I win with Peter O'Toole?"

Paramount Rep smiled smugly. "I said 'famous,' remember?"

Russians to Teach Morality in School

A Russian Orthodox Church spokesman recently declared that the country's schools need to teach religion and morality.

Father Vsevolod Chaplin said that the state needs to demonize the dissolute life to keep Russia's youth from being influenced by "the cult of glamour and debauchery." ''We have to show them an unhappy homosexual in his 40s and an aging prostitute,'' he said.

So, tomorrow night, he said, everybody under 21 has to watch "Breakfast at Tiffany's."

For Saturday he's rented "Pretty Woman."

Russians to Teach Morality in School

Mitt Romney's Sons Fight For Him, Not So Much For Us.

Mitt Romney has five sons ranging in age from 25 to 36. They vehemently support the war in Iraq, yet oddly none of them has enlisted.

Judging from their blog, they also seem to hang around a lot of white people.

Naturally I added my thoughts. "Wow!" my comment read. "What a lot of white people. By the way, why aren't any of you guys in the service? Is it just the folks on the short end of the economic stick who are forced to die defending our country?"

Hasn't made it through moderation yet, but I've got my fingers crossed.

Most of the world's white people.

Bothered and Bewildered

Every member of every minority group has a specific life goal to fulfill. Jews have to visit Israel, Muslims have to go to Mecca, and gays have to persuade a straight guy to have drunken sex with them.

Scott lived a few doors down in my college dorm, and I fell head over heels for him. He was a farmboy straight out of Nebraska, with the stocky, broad-shouldered body that came from hard work, fresh air and twenty years of eating nothing but beef. It wasn't just physical attraction that drew me to Scott: his personality drew me in too. He was quiet and confident and an all-American boy, Jimmy Stewart with eighteen-inch arms. He was butch as Hoss Cartright, straight as a rail, and owned a Harley Davidson, which was two virtues more than I needed to pledge my undying troth.

To my eternal surprise, Scott wasn't totally horrified by me. He was either curious or envious of the fact that I was relatively hip. That had taken no work whatsoever on my part: my roommate was one of the dorm's major drug dealers so I got some of that cachet, plus being gay in San Francisco earned me bonus points. Every Friday night I'd head to Castro Street and paint the town red, sometimes not returning home until just before classes on Monday. The first time I did this the Resident Advisor called the police to report me missing. He started to give them my description and the officer cut him off. "Oh, that guy," the officer said. "We've been looking for him for years."

Needless to say, by the time I returned, word had gotten around. The police wanted me. Just by being a cheap tramp I became the Lindsay Lohan of my dorm.

Scott didn't protest, then, when I followed him around like a puppy, content to bask in his presence and occasionally try to peek up his little red shorts. I hung out in the TV room when he was there, joined his table at the cafeteria, dropped by every party where he was. I knew from Day One that nothing would ever happen between us, because he was completely and totally straight. Even if he was curious, I was hardly the type who could talk fence-sitters to jump over to our side. Besides, I liked Scott. I respected Scott. I wouldn't have fallen for him in the first place if he listened to what I said.

The first time he mentioned his motorcycle I gushed with admiration. "I'll take you for a ride sometime," he offered, fueling my sexual fantasies for a year. I pictured him commandeering a massive hog, muscles bulging beneath his denim shirt, and me wedged like a biker bitch behind him. I'd hang on tight, my groin to his ass, and grind against him as all of San Francisco gaily zipped by. He could drive us straight to hell and with my hands wrapped around him I'd have paid all the tolls.

One night I saw him in the TV room, so naturally I went in. He was reclining in one club chair, with his legs propped up by another, his muscles making both look understuffed. As usual he wore his little red shorts, and the vast expanse of his hairy legs was covered with homework assignments. "Hey," he announced suddenly, "I promised you a motorcycle ride. You wanna go drive around?"

I was so startled I could hardly believe my ears. I'd long since given up hope. I'd decided the odds of this happening were just short of Jesus dropping by and asking if I wanted to go meet Dad. "That would be . . . absolutely . . . fantastic," I gushed, almost too excited to speak. Five minutes later he had his hands on the handlebars, and I had my hands on him.

We bounced and zipped and swerved all over San Francisco, for the better part of the night. We stopped by Coit Tower, varoomed past Fisherman's Wharf, and circled the Cannery, him looking cool and confident and me with an shiteating grin on my face. I was the picture of discretion, keeping my hands where safety required rather than pushing my luck. I was happy making any kind of contact at all, and he seemed oddly comfortable too.

After we'd been down every street in the South Bay, the neighborhood turned familiar, and my heart sank when I spotted the college parking lot. "Hey," I said, after took our helmets off, "you wanna come up and smoke some dope?"

We lit up joint after joint while perched on the edge of my bed. Clearly this was a new bond of intimacy between us. I was content to bask in the afterglow, but some small part of me wondered how far it would go. No matter how stoned I got, my hands still trembled with excitement. I snuck a fresh glimpse of him whenever I got the chance, picturing us intertwined in an erotic embrace while ignoring the fact that very few attractive people have longings for stick-thin, bearded teens. I absent-mindedly chatted about how great the ride was, and how great motorcycles were, and how much I liked San Francisco, and when the conversation dried up we just sat there. Passing the joint I let my eyes linger on him a minute, and this time he looked back. Then he flipped on the TV -- nervously, it seemed -- and spun the channel until it landed on "Bewitched."

I never really liked the program, but it totally killed my buzz here. Scott, on the other hand, became visibly excited, the red slits he had for eyes opening saucer-wide. Slowly he slid back onto the bed, and you could almost watch his crotch expand. His eyes stayed fixed on the TV as his hands sat poised astride his groin, like a gunslinger getting ready to draw.

"That Samantha is completely, totally hot," he announced before taking a hit off the roach.

"Yeah," I said, almost honestly. "But I'm not all that fixated on appearance. Personality is more important to me: it's what really makes people attractive. Whether they're fat or skinny or young or old, it doesn't matter. You touch, you hold, you connect. Sex is a physical manifestation of affection that shouldn't be weighed down by looks."

"So you'd do an ugly chick?" he asked from deep inside a cloud of dope smoke.

"I don't select my partners based on looks," I corrected. I gestured toward the television: "So that's who you're holding out for?"

"Well, not necessarily," he said cryptically. "I can fantasize. I can pretend. Besides, everybody looks the same in the dark."

He looked at me and I looked at him, and then it happened. I could actually seen the green light flash in his eyes. He went for the lamp and I went for his pants, and in a nanosecond both were off. Rather than meeting in a mutual embrace, though, it was more like a wrestling hold. Two enormous, cornfed arms pulled me to my feet and bent me over the coffee table. Without so much as a hug or a kiss he plugged right in and started banging away. "Ohmigod," came a groan from somewhere in the dark, "this is so freakin' hot."

Me, I wasn't so sure. It had all happened way too fast. Was this it? I wondered as he slammed me back and forth like a ragdoll. My head cleared the table like a battering ram, clanging my knickknacks together like windchimes. Was I actually having sex with my soulmate and it was nothing but a pain in the ass?

"IS THIS IT FOR POSITIONS?" I yelled as I head-butted the lamp to the ground.

Scott kept pounding away, oblivious. "Oh, Samantha," he groaned, fraught with passion. "Oh Sam, oh Sam, oh Sam!"

His speed increased, and realizing I was in a distant second place, I took matters into my own hands. Futilely I tried to coax my genitals into something approaching interest, but before they could respond Scott made a sprint for the finish. "OH SAM!" he yelped. "OH SAM! OH SAM!"

"Oh LARRY!" I groaned. "OH, LARRY! OH, LARRY, LARRY, LARRY!"

The thrusts came to an abrupt halt, and his iron grasp loosened on my hips. "I'm DARREN," he declared testily, "not LARRY."

"I know," I croaked, mentally shredding my unwritten love letters. "But if you're that lousy in the sack, I'm pretty sure she's thinking about somebody else."

Lionel Richie on "Great Performances" tonight

Lionel Richie is on PBS' "Great Performances" tonight.

I'd have guessed he'd make "Mystery" first.

A Gay Guy Wastes Your Time

Cult comedian Bob Odenkirk recently sold two television pilots: "Do You Want to Know What's in My Pocket?" and the home-decorating show "A Gay Guy Wastes Your Time."

As far as the first idea, I find it startlingly close to my own "What's In Your Cargo Shorts?" And as for the second, well, I've been doing that for years.

Firemen Frightened by Gay Pride Parade

It's called "outreach."

They're called "idiots."

They should be fired, because if a Gay Pride Parade frightens them, burning buildings must make them pee their pants.

Firemen Frightened by Gay Pride Parade.

Gay English

I flunked English in high school, but it's not my fault. First, the books we were assigned were just plain weird. A raven that communicates telepathically? A man obsessed with a white whale? If I was into crazy I'd read celebrity autobiographies.

And then we got quizzed with incomprehensible questions. "Why did Poe decide to use a raven?" Um, because chickens aren't scary? "Why did Herman Melville write this book?" Because he couldn't make any money masturbating? How the hell was I supposed to know?

Now if they'd tested us on stuff I could relate to, I'd be Truman Capote today. I came up with some examples: see if you're better at answering these vocabulary questions than the ones they gave you in school.


1. "Forget about Tim," Mike says. "Aside from being self-centered, he's in lousy shape. He hasn't even got a six-pack!" What does Mike mean?

a. Tim has very little beer.
b. You can't see Tim's abdominal muscles.
c. You know, if we're voting I'd take a Big Gulp over a six-pack any day.

2. Fred meets the hottest guy at this new club, and they're all set to leave together when the guy announces that he's into shrimping. What should Fred do?

a. Go for it! I'm an die-hard clammer myself.
b. Get a pedicure.
c. He needs to stay away from that crap or he's going to end up with one "Red Lobster."

3. "Wayne and I had a great time," Simon tells his friend Raoul. "But when I woke up this morning I had a splitting headache and a mouthful of head cheese." What do you think this means?

a. Wayne is hygienically-challenged downstairs.
b. This is why friends don't send friends Hickory Farms.
c. There's someone in the world I want to kiss less than my grandma.

4. "George Clooney, Sean Connery, Harrison Ford," Wayne ticks off on his fingers. "Every handsome man in Hollywood has had a hummer." What is Wayne telling us?

a. That many desirable men own flashy all-terrain vehicles originally designed for military use.
b. That lots of famous people have kept tiny, hyperactive birds as pets.
c. That maybe the night I spent with the three of them wasn't just a wonderful dream.

5. You meet someone new and just as things are heating up he tells you he's Greek active. How do you react?

a. I don't care as long as he doesn't smash my plates.
b. I'd head for the hills. Last time I met one of them I ended up with a platter of baklava.
c. Did you know that Greece is home to a long line of seamen?

6. "That was close," Barry gasps, dodging a speeding baseball. "That thing was headed straight for the family jewels." What is Barry trying to say?

a. The baseball nearly hit him in the gonads.
b. The ball's trajectory intersected with a small, velvet-lined box containing Barry's rings, bracelets and brooches.
c. Hang on: I'm trying to picture Ivana Trump with some of these dangling around her neck.

7. After class, my sociology professor took me aside. "Hey, Bob," he said, "did you get wind of my giant endowment?" What's professor talking about?

a. Someone's made a generous donation to the school.
b. Bob finally found a good "Hoss" for his Bonanza fantasy.
c. See, this is why I never sit in the front of the class.

8. Halfway through their first date Pete is surprised to catch Harvey in his bathroom spanking the monkey. What‘s Harvey doing?

a. I have no idea, but I've already called PETA.
b. What every guy does when he's alone, after checking to see if wrestling is on TV.
c. I've found a timeout works perfectly well to get Mr. Muggs in line.

9. "That dike is cracked," Olaf says. "She's dangerous, and if she breaks she'll destroy everything in her path." What could Olaf be referring to?

a. A crumbling dam that holds back a mighty river
b. part of a car's engine
c. Sandra Bernhard

10. "Captain Cork," says the able-bodied First Officer Mr. Cock, "while the trajectory looks clear to the naked eye, sensors show Klingons around Uranus." What do we learn from this?

a. That a hostile life form is lurking near one of earth's outer planets.
b. That Vulcans are clueless about double-entendres.
c. To avoid movies called "Star Trick -- the Next Penetration."

11. James is answering a personal ad. "I'm easy on the eyes," he writes, "and I've got low hangers." What does James mean?

a. He's reasonably attractive and he owns several dimunitive buildings where you can park aircraft.
b. He shouldn't cross his legs when he's wearing shorts.
c. If you introduce him to your mom you'd better stick with "nice."

12. "I just saw the weirdest thing," Steve exclaims to Paul. "I swear there was something nibbling on my nut sack." What is Steve trying to say?

a. He spotted something moving inside his Calvins.
b. There's a reason those pistachios are at Dollar World.
c. Beats me, but I'm not stopping by his place for "snacks."

13. Carl and his lover are sitting at the kitchen table in their boxer shorts when the mailman comes by. He leers at the men and says, "You know, I'll bet the three of us could make a real hot sandwich." What should Carl think?

a. He should be thrilled. My mailman usually just pesters me for sex.
b. He should consider having a three-way with the guy.
c. Ohhhh. So that was mayo on my copy of "Pistol Packin' Playaz."

14. Steve goes to visit his friend in the hospital. "He's already been released," the receptionist says. "He's downstairs, waiting in discharge." What does this mean?

a. He's sitting in the area of the hospital reserved for exiting patients.
b. He's got the same HMO I've got.
c. Somebody's going to need new shoes.

15. Last night Keith took Tom to a fancy French restaurant. Keith went to the bank beforehand, but paying the waiter he completely blew his wad. What exactly did Keith do?

a. He spent most of his money.
b. He ruined Tom's chances for an enjoyable nightcap.
c. If that was on top of a fifteen percent tip, my name's Roman and I'll be your waiter tonight.



HOW TO SCORE: Think positive, but pad your pants. Thank anyone who says your ass is smokin', but run when they offer to put it out.

Nicole Richie is Pregnant

Nicole Richie is pregnant, a spokesman recently announced. "She is so excited about it," he said, "she's started eating for one."

The Game's A Foot

The first time I went to a bar in New York I had somebody talking to me before I even had the chance to get a drink. I had no idea what the guy looked like, since he stared straight down the whole time. "Nice boots," he announced.

It's not the kind of line that'll dazzle you with personality, but it's the thought that counts. "Thanks," I said. I'm not exactly Regis Philbin.

"What size are they?"

"Thirteen." It was a lie but it made me feel better. I was the hundred-year-old woman telling folks she's ninety-eight.

"Wow. That's big."

Right around here I started to think, okay, it's time to segue into something else. Let's talk about the weather, or politics, or the skankiness of various American Idols. Let's slide the conversation somewhere interesting.

"What are they made of?" he asked.

I was getting irritated now, and more than a little suspicious. What were the choices here? Car parts? Bacon ends? Lint collected from the navels of Belgian nuns? "Leather, I guess."

"Oh," he said. He still didn't look up. "The stitching looks really, really strong."

I hung on just a few minutes longer before deciding it was time to bolt. My friend Steve was watching and snickering just a few feet away, so I told the guy he was my boyfriend and scurried away.

Steve was hardly a safe harbor. I appreciated his insight into books and movies and human behavior, but balked when he noticed things in my life that I'd missed. "He sure was interested in your feet, wasn't he?" he said, a smirk permanently affixed to his face.

I shrugged my shoulders. "So he likes shoes," I said. "Everybody likes something."

"Okay," he said, rolling his eyes. "Sure. But didn't you think it was strange that he had to taste the leather?"

It had kind of raised a red flag. "He says really good leather tastes slightly nutty."

"How about the soles? What does high-quality rubber taste like?"

My stupidity poked its head up like a gopher on a golf course. "Chicken."

"Oh, okay. Now it's making perfect sense. Why did you have to take them off?"

"He thought they were cramping my instep."

"And they were, of course," he said, as I nodded dumbly. "But it wasn't anything that couldn't be fixed with his tongue?"

Clammy toes started to twitch inside my shoes. It all sounded so plausible when the guy had said it, and yet so preposterous now. For the rest of the evening I could barely wipe the shame from my face. I'd been the unwitting patsy in some perverted sex ritual, the clueless foot for a manipulative fetishist. Sure, I'd been used before, and as long as Rohypnol or KFC existed I'd be used again. But being taken advantage of in a crowded bar, while drunken men guffawed at me behind their beer, totally crossed the line.

The next time I met a Foot Fan, then, I swore I'd get revenge. I'd drive him wild with desire. I'd taunt him with my peerless peds until, unable to bear his frustrated passion, he'd fling himself in front of the nearest cab. Then I'd laugh, laugh, and laugh some more. Sure, I passed out cold when my cat gave birth, but I wasn't thinking properly at this point.

I had to wait more than eight months, but I finally got my chance. I recognized the downward stare and the stupid questions, and I knew the stage was set. Take your seats, boys and girls, I all but bellowed to the oblivious fool. It's time for Foot Fetish Theater!

"These are very rare pair of boots," I said, lifting one up so this poor sap could get a closer look. "They come from a small, ancient atelier in Italy where they still do things the old-fashioned way. They need to duplicate how your feet sweat when they're cramped up all day, so they strip you down to a jockstrap and lay you on a couch while they moisten your toes with their probing tongues. They suck on each one individually, lovingly, digging into all the little nooks and crannies, gently nipping at the warm pink flesh, cleaning the tops and sides like a determined cat."

At the very least I got him to look up. "Don't play games with me," he scolded. "If you aren't interested, just say so. Personally, though, I can't understand why somebody would turn down a foot massage. I employ ancient healing techniques combined with reflexology to create a total foot experience. Hot stones melt the tension from the lower legs, dissolving stress while improving circulation, and biometric toe manipulation opens clogged energy pathways."

Believe it or not, this started to sound tempting. Even with me mentally inserting the phrase "with my tongue" into every line.

"Then," he continued, "a deep exfoliation of salts smoothes and moisturizes the skin. I drizzle your feet with exotic oils known for purification -- mint from the deepest Sahara, sandalwood from Bolivian rainforests, patchouli gathered from virgin crocus --- and wrap them in the softest silk to plump every pore with hydration. A light massage of body cream seals your skin like a warm blanket, and you'll find yourself in a new plane of existence, where improved mental acuity mingles with a renewed sense of spiritual well-being."

This wasn't anything like what I'd imagined. "You don't just want to jerk off on my toes?"

He shook his head solemnly. "Au contraire. What I offer you is a journey of total relaxation, in an aura of peace and tranquility."

I decided to postpone my revenge. Guys always try to tell you what you want to hear, but this one in particular hit it on the nose. I always thought sex would be better if it were more like a spa treatment: I'd lay there, my needs would be met, and afterward somebody would bring me tea. Maybe this isn't enough to tempt you into forbidden fields, but for a guy as selfish as me it was like an engraved invitation from the Queen.

And so I followed him home, his gaze never leaving my instep. Though I'd pictured a lair as exotic and mysterious as the Casbah, his place was packed with all-American crap. The air reeked of Glade Plug-Ins, the carpet was as long as my hair, and Mantovani blared from the Radio Shack stereo. But my feet felt a bliss they'd never known.

To make a long story short, I didn't leave that apartment for nearly five months. Nathan's devotion won me over, totally and completely, and we began talking of love and children and white picket fences. Sure, I got a little tired of watching "My Left Foot," "Kinky Boots" and "On Your Toes" every Friday night, but his ministrations to me more than made up.

I hadn't stood for nearly a week when I made that fateful decision to vacuum, and I found that Odor Eater somebody had lost beneath the couch.

Size seventeen. Not mine, and clearly not his.

He pleaded and cajoled and begged for forgiveness, but I threw all my stuff into a suitcase and left. It was a long, hard walk to the car, and not just because my feet squished in my shoes.