2007-12-03 - 1:28 a.m.
This afternoon, I was sucking off this nice young fellow who works at the YMCA. After that, I went to the Novel Cafe, where I got myself a bowl of their broccoli soup. And I can now officially tell you this: Cum tastes better than the Novel’s broccoli soup. Why should that be? Cum doesn’t taste especially nice, unless you are crazy into it.
But this broccoli soup was just detestable. It tasted like ground dirt – like they hadn’t even washed the broccolis before pureeing them. By contrast, the nice boy’s semen tasted charming and pleasantly flavorless – and since the guy was so into it, it even had the feeling of being a special present, which the broccoli soup was especially not.
Anyway: That was just a thought I had, while I should be doing something more worthwhile. I am not having sex enough these days: My mojo is seriously undiminished I have to tell you. But I am working on getting it back, I assure you, and when that happens you’ll be the very first to know. At least there is the kid at the Y, who seems to enjoy whatever it is I do.
I am currently fuming over this announcement from the GRE board, which I just received, noting that, after 35 years, they have decided to entirely change the test-taking procedures THIS MONTH. How irritating! From now on they are going to remove the multiple choice math section, requiring you to actually work out the math problems. I think that this is beyond disgusting. I am just going to shoot for an average score on the math section. What else can I do? I haven’t opened a math book since 1982. Seriously. I can’t even balance my check book. I really just can’t get an even break, and that’s the truth of it.
Mind you, rather than do any of the things I have just mentioned, I think I would much rather write to you, my one, true blog-a-licious blog. For it is you who are the repository of my dreams and my heart.
Have I become an entirely different sort of person over the past year? I’m afraid so – and I am not entirely sure I enjoy the sort of fellow I have evolved into. Where before I was a wild and dirty old sleaze – a Peter Pan-syndrome honking party boy who enjoyed daily dalliances with whoever and whatever he could pick up – now I have become a decidedly dull middle aged fellow who works in a library and is always so very sensible. It’s not especially appealing.
I mean, just last weekend, I hauled myself into this gay bar called Fubar to see some go go dancers, and all I could think of was that I really wished I could be tucked into my little bed, with a hot chocolate and a copy of Plautus’s Pseudolus on my lap, not a go go boy. You know there’s something odd with the world when you enter a gay club and the strippers start greeting you by name. It’s unnerving. I had myself one little gin and tonic – and then had a full on hangover the very next morning.
Meanwhile, last night I found myself at this silly little Christmas play in North Hollywood. It was a song revue, a la “Forever Plaid” or “Greater Tuna,” about this mythical, legendary girl’s group from the 60s.
The show was fair enough, but it was during the intermission that I discovered the most amazing thing going on in the theater next door. In that theater, inside a packed house, there was a one woman cabaret show being offered by Kathryn Crosby, the widow of Bing, who was doing a sort of series of reminiscences.
It was a simply enormous theater – and even so, the old woman sort of looked like she was all alone in the place, wearing a black evening gown spangled with rhinestones. She held a microphone in one hand, and her voice echoed through the eaves of the theater. She occasionally warbled an Old Woman version of a torch song or two. Totally elegiac and wistful, it was.
Even to watch the show for about two minutes, which was all I could do before I went back to the Holly Jolly Forever Plaid Show, I could see that it was an eerie and almost ghostly experience. Kathryn Crosby was like a ghost from some other world, dictating her memoirs from the stage. It really was quite unforgettable.
