2005-04-12 - 6:00 a.m.
Ah here we are again -- time for another visit to My Blog of Genius. Or do I mean My Blog of Madness? For as you know, there is only a thin line separating genius and madness – and often enough what we call genius is simply only madness that is somehow useful to the outside world.
I am so glad to see you. For here at the Land of the Big Blue Blog-a-roo, I do not discriminate. All are welcome. You are welcome here even if you are a Crazed and Obsessed Geek Fan of The Superstar Twink. You are welcome here if you are only searching for gossip about Dan Abrams’s hair plugs. Though I might think you are clearly more possessed of madness than genius if thos are the reasons why you have come here. And, of course, you are especially welcome here if you have surfed to this site having inputted into Google words like “he sucked my cock!” or “sat there and ate out his ass!”
You are all welcome here. I turn no one away. And why would I? Each hit to this blog is like an introduction to a new friend – albeit a friend who will prove to be as shallow as a tidepool in the Mojave Desert, or as satisfying as being served alfalfa sprout and celery fricassee.
Actually, I suppose that many of you are not friends at all and never shall be. Some of you are revolting freaks and I wish that I could selectively block you from logging in. Alas, though, technology hasn’t quite come that far! We can fly a man to the moon, but we can’t keep a Moon-Eyed Superstar Twink Freak from doing a stupid Google search and invading my little blog-world. If I could put some kind of a filter on this blog so that only cute gay guys from 20-50 would log in, I would slap that puppy on my computer so fast your head would spin. However, alas! The world just doesn’t work that way.
So this is what I am talking about. About a week ago, some teenage girl stumbled on my blog and wrote about it in her Livejournal. Big deal! That happens all the time. It was all well and good, and, really, I could not care less. It’s not like I have any control over what folks will say or think about me. Unfortunately, though, that girl’s blog is part of some kind of a Superstar Twink Information Superhighway. And since she wrote about me, I have been INUNDATED with countless horrific hits from seemingly deranged strangers!
I frankly am disturbed and appalled by the sheer number of them: It’s like 20 hits an hour. And they occur at odd increments: Some person clicks on me every three seconds or so, like he or she is some kind of an obsessive compulsive neurotic freak going “bling, bling, bling” with his/her mouse. Another person has cached my blog, so folks will still have access to it, even if I decide to lock it up for a few days.
Worse yet: Much to my dismay and downright rage, massive, irritating debates have been spawned about what I write. As of last night, there are something like 5 or 10 threads on different websites all trying to guess at who I might be or what I am up to. I would not have even known about any of it, except for the fact that Diaryland has this service that keeps track of the ISPs of every person who visits my blog, and also lists what they linked to me from. And this is what I can say about this veritable ocean of loons who are washing up on my shore. What a bunch of NUTS!
Oh my God, I would be so ashamed to have an interest in the Superstar Twink as my hobby. I would be TOTALLY embarrassed. I would just hide my head in a bucket. I would sign myself into the nearest Barking Bin and throw away the key. I would leap off the tallest building in town, onto a fence with iron spikes on it, sticking straight up.
What -- are you folks so crazy, stupid, and hideous that you can’t find some other way of amusing yourselves? What can you be thinking? You guys must so ugly you could paint yourselves grey, hang around at Notre Dame and get hired as gargoyles! You guys must be so stupid that you sit there and drool over some phantasm who doesn’t exist – or, at least, is nothing like the way you idiots imagine he is!
As mean spirited and as unkind as I am -- and I freely admit that I am both -- even I have been taken aback by the venom and unpleasant karma emitted by many of these freaky folks. And some of them are so damn odd! Thread after thread on these websites are filled with babbling freak-a-zoids debating whether I am real or whether I am some kind of con-artist seeking to bilk THEM out of something or other. What I am trying to bilk them out of, I am not sure.
But I also find it quite amazing that these folks are so circular in their perception that they assume that everything anyone ever writes is about them. This blog is one thousand and five hundred pages long. It goes back three years, describing events that range from workstuff to sexstuff to familystuff. The stuff on the Superstar Twink is, what, no more than 20 pages of it? Give me a break. Such monomania. I have nothing else to do but worry about whether the Hideous Armies of the Superstar Twink’s Freaky Stalkers are content and happy! I have never in my life heard of anything more self importantly self delusional.
In the comments about the blog that these foolish folk write, I am noticing a great deal of Transference, as folks try impose their own disturbed behavior and perceptions on this blog and my purposes in writing it. One hideous moon faced harpy had the gall to pen this enormous long essay accusing me of “erotophobia,” whatever that is. And saying that I was clearly a Deranged Fan who was having conversations with the Superstar Twink in my head and believing that they’re real. She seemed to suggest that all the things that I have written are building blocks, constructing a perfectly connected conspiracy of paranoia and schizophrenia. And she added that she thought that I was rather like that fellow who was plotting to kidnap Steven Spielberg and torture him silly in a van. Restraining orders all around, was her “advice” to the Superstar Twink.
Come to think of it, I have to admit that the idea of kidnapping Steven Spielberg and torturing him for hours in a van, using nipple hooks and whips, is not a half bad idea. And I remember that story: I was working on that movie lot at the time, and I recall how the guards used to search my shoulder bag VERY closely every time I passed through the main gate.
But, even more than taking umbrage over being called nuts (really it’s hard to argue with that), I was rendered incoherent with rage when the revolting chowder faced sow of a slop brained hag called me a “pudgy, middle aged would be writer who hangs out at twink bars!” Now THAT threw me into a high dudgeon. And when she said that you could tell I am a nutburger from “my pompous writing style” – well, that made me so angry I wanted to pull my hair. I flew into such a fury I literally could not speak for a minute. I wanted to go out and slap the first fat, ugly, spinster pig-girl I saw in the street, just in case it was her.
Another Superstar Twink Weirdo had the gall to actually search out my Gay.com profile, which has my photo on it. Talk about stalkers! Worse, still, one of the threads then went on to spitefully analyze me on the level of physical attractiveness. One irritating queen – and I can only assume that it was some nasty Weho Twink Bimboy whose voice has a lisp that’s nellier than a troop of tweny drag queens on a visit to Gay Day at Disneyland – had the outrageous tackiness to comment upon my photo, noting, “I have been to the Abbey. That guy is NOT getting cute young guys to crawl into his lap!”
Well, how dare he! As if my goal in life is to hang around the Abbey all night, wearing some A and F baseball jersey and a stupid yellow baseball cap with the edges fringed off. As if my whole purpose is to do nothing but sit around and drink ten dollar Apple-tinis and wait to be fondled by some dolt who thinks the Superstar Twink is the bee’s knees! As if the opinion of someone who thinks the Superstar Twink is “Hawt” matters!
And, as it happened, the last time I went to Weho, I must confess that the main thing that happened was that a cute little fellow all but crawled into my lap! So how does THAT make you feel, Mister Man? I bet you are eating your words, aren’t you? Don’t tell ME. Of course, this actually didn’t happen at the Abbey, per se – it happened at Mickeys, which is a rather sleazier place, if the truth be known. But what of that? Anyway, about a week ago, I found myself at Mickeys watching the cute dancing boys and having a well earned Gin and Tonic. As sheer coincidence would have it, I was there for Kids Night, which I usually abhor. Now: I swear to you on the Cross of Jesus Himself that I was not at the bar specifically for Kids’ Night. Kids Night just happened to be going on around me.
Anyway, I was minding my own business, sitting at the bar, and I kept noticing out of the corner of my eye that this… kid… kept cadging sideways looks at me. He was but a child! A young, young Latino boy, maybe 19 at the most, but possibly younger. His face was covered with a fine spray of little red pimples – and he wore dorky little glasses. I kept noticing him giving me the eye. He must have been a total gerantophile! Finally, he swallowed and got up the courage to say “howdy.”
“Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat. “Those are some good looking dancers aren’t they?” The boy’s voice cracked as he spoke. His eyes were filled with need and desire. And I noticed that his teeth were covered with huge tin braces.
“Uh, yeah,” I replied. “You should go up there and slide a dollar into their briefs!”
“Ohh!” the kid whimpered. “I couldn’t do THAT! You do it, though! I want you to go up there and give him a dollar. And, while you’re gone…” He winked. “I’ll watch your SEAT!”
So I went up and gave the dancer a dollar. As I returned to my stool, the little drunk teenager’s hand grabbed my ass. And as I sat down, he slid his hand between my legs to feel my crotch.
“Ohhhh! NIIIICE penis!” the kid squeaked.
“Jeeee-zus, kid!” I protested. “How OLD are you? 13?”
The kid looked miffed. “I’m 21! I swear I’m 21! Here – look at my ID!” The boy whipped out a California’s Driver’s license that suggested, yes, the owner of the card was 21. The problem was that the face in the photo didn’t look even slightly like the bespectacled, goggling boy trying to flirt with me. I sighed. And I gently ran my hands over the kid’s leg, gently sliding my fingers over his groin. His cock was almost comically hard – rock solid, the bulge jutting iron-bar-like in his jeans.
“Damn, kid! You’re trouble. Trouble, trouble, trouble!” I managed to escape and ran into the bathroom. A few minutes later, though, I was standing at the urinal, doing my business, when I noticed this head slowly peep up from the other side of the barrier wall. A pimply looking face rose into view, the boy’s glasses askew on his face. The boy peered down at my dick.
“Mmmmmm!” he leered. “Niiiiice!”
“Ahh, kid!” I roared. “Come on! How am I supposed to pee with you doing that? Geddouttahere!” Much to my amazement, the boy’s eyes filled with tears and his voice trembled.
“Ok, Ok, I see how it is. I do!” and he turned on his heel and ran out of the bathroom, sobbing madly. Now, I ask you – did I do the right thing? Or was I needlessly cruel and rude? Gay manners are sometimes so hard to penetrate.
Anyway, that’s all for now. If I seem to be more cranky than usual, it is because you see I was just fired today! Or, excuse me, “let go” as they say. I shall have more to say about this next time, I assure you. So stick around.
