2006-02-11 - 5:20 p.m.
Does anyone else think it’s darn strange that during the Olympic Opening Ceremonies, all the nations of the world were forced to enter to disco music from the 70s? What do you think all that was about? I mean, the proud young athletes from Demark and Germany can’t have really intended that their incredible moment of fame and glory would come accompanied by the Village People’s grotesque chestnut YMCA.
Mind you, it’s kind of a good gag that countries such as Iran and China had to march across that Plexiglas rink, cowed by the hideous shrieking castrati voice of Donna Sommers squawking “Disco Shoes For Muh Baby” or something like that. Oh – and there they go singing “Video Killed the Radio Star,” as that one poor fellow from Ethiopia goes staggering down the aisle. You see, I can’t help but think that’s flat out nuts.
Even the sportscasters -- particularly that oik who used to do the late night thing on NBC, the one I have always wanted to throttle until he turns blue -- seemed rather nonplussed by it. I suppose the Italian organizers of the opening ceremonies are trying to suggest something ironic with all this. But you and I both know the truth, don’t we dearest Big Blue Blog-a-roo. And since I am the only one talking, I suppose that I will have to put it into words.
The Italians are saying this: “The world might be a joyous celebration of an infinite number of nations. However! We still bridle under the yoke of one culture – and that is the disgusting, vulgar, bland, and revolting American culture, which is evidenced at its worst stage in its history by the loathsome innate vileness of Disco Music.”
It is a hidden message, calling for revolution against America, that’s what it is. And, as I listened to the grodey disco music, and watched the endless commercials whose emotional thrust was to make us sitting on our sofas eating Ding Dongs feel like we are Olympic champions ourselves – even if we are just Olympic Gold Medal winners in sub-mediocrity – I felt sad that the world is now ruled by companies and corporations, not by governments.
Actually the schmaltz of the Olympic Opening Ceremonies drew me in -- almost. I mean, how can you not like seeing all those happy people all prancing around? And the masks and costumes of the production numbers – well, they were all so lovely. I admit I also had a good laugh when that ridiculous Yoko Ono started quacking something or other about “peace,” but Peter Gabriel’s song was lovely. And it was funny to see big ole Luciano “Chicken Cacciatore” Pavarotti croakin’ Nessa Dorma. It wasn’t over until the fat guy sang, that’s for sure.
How strange. I must confess that I just had the most profound and powerful moment of wishing I was straight that I have almost ever had. It was quite unusual. I almost never have moments like that. Usually I am as happy being a big ole fegolah as the day is long! The thought that I might be happier being straight generally doesn’t arise.
Indeed, I remember how, back in college, when I would bemoan my Man Problems – and there were many, I have to tell you, dear blog-a-licious blog -- gay guys would always tell me, “Are you SURE you’re not straight? You would be so much happier being straight!” I would laugh the comment off – or I would take it as an insult, interpreting the comment as being a criticism on my right to be gay.
You see, I am basically a pragmatic and practical soul. And as far back as when I was 16, the moment I realized that I was just plain Not Like The Other Boys, I accepted it almost instantly. I was like, “Oh well, that’s the way it is.” And since then, I have gone through my life without even giving a thought to wishing I was straight or wanting to have a girlfriend or wife. Unlike my ridiculous cousin Shlomo Darlingstein, I didn’t go through that “experimental” stage during which I dabbled with girls, just to see if it’d take.
In this case, I did not have an issue with “wanting what I can’t have” as the self help books say. I just felt gratitude that, while I was different from most of the world, there was still a community that I could be part of. I admit, when you think of it, such quiet acceptance of my fate is totally unlike me, as I am more frequently a creature of total envy and jealousy.
But then there I was yesterday, at the Coffee Bean on Main Street, reading my little screenplay for that consulting company I am working for this week, and I was listening with one ear to this conversation a young couple, seated on a nearby sofa, was having. He was very much the standard Venice Beach boho – all torn jeans and a rumply T-shirt, with a little scruffy stubbly artist’s beard. He had a big ole “Dogtown” be-stickered skateboard by his feet, which were clad in enormous, trendy checkerboard-patterned sneakers.
By contrast, the girl he was with looked like the most astonishingly beautiful fashion model. She was a European beauty, almost jarringly well put together, in a chic black dress and a lovely velour jacket, with long and luxurious black hair. Her eyes crackled with intelligence and good humor, and she laughed in a light East European accent, seemingly well pleased by the fellow’s idiotic commentary about New Age healing and the best club off the Venice Boardwalk.
At one point, the girl noted that she was just passing through LA and was not that pleased with the city, because everything seems so shallow to her. She mentioned in passing that she was just 24 – and then she caught me glancing at her from the corner of my eye.
“My goodness!” she laughed, catching my glance. “What was THAT look for!”
I hastily replied that I was just looking at her because I was amazed by her self assurance and obvious maturity at such a young age. She simpered prettily and turned me the most ravishing, toothy smile. I went on to note that LA is a town in which folks never seem to grow up.
“Oh my! You are so right!” the girl replied. “I came here from Bulgaria, and now I work as an ESL and social studies teacher. But I have never, ever seen so many 37 and 38 year old men who are just CHILDREN. What is it with all these 40 year old men who skateboard and spend all their days and nights playing games? Those are not men – those are men-boys! So not what a woman could ever be interested in.”
The Venice boho who had arrived with her, and who had obviously run into the girl at the beach, nodded and smiled, agreeing, even though I daresay we were talking exactly about him. The girl and I continued to chat about how ridiculous folks in LA were -- and the silly floppy fellow eventually stood up and politely said he had to skate home.
“Anyway, I gotta jet. Here is my phone number,” the guy burbled, shoving a scrap of paper into her hand. “Give me a buzz some time and maybe we can hang out or something!”
The girl absently nodded dismissively, crumpled the paper in her sylvan fist, and shoved it into her pocket. She then continued her conversation with me.
She said, “It is so true! Now me -- I am from a part of the world where adults are adults. I admire a man who has something going for himself. Someone with a real life and stability! Someone who has his sheet together!”
She batted her eyes at me, and one little curl from her beautiful black hair flopped with perfect drama just over her left eye. I, of course, did not have the heart to disabuse her, either about my being gay or having my “sheet” together, but it became brutally clear that I was just the sort of fellow she was hoping to Date here in Los Angeles.
And, really, I have to admit that I looked the very image of respectable upper middle class fellow, irresistible to Eastern Europeans, particularly from places that were only just liberated from the yoke of the Iron Curtain. The very picture of a plump, almost-middle aged, but not quite yet over-the-hill, kindly American man. And if you found yourself attracted to that sort of person – and, really, I can’t imagine that anyone would, but people have more quirks in the world than there are grains of sand on the beach – I would undeniably be precisely what you would be looking for.
This girl was all flirty and stuff, leaning forward and looking right into my eyes, giggling and simpering. And I responded to her with that exaggerated courtliness that is the way I always treat women, as if to compensate for the lack of physical and emotional attraction. Women often lick it up, too – though rarely as totally as this gorgeous beauty did. She laughed at my jokes, preened, and, as she left, she gave me her card, with her phone number on it.
“Please, please, please, call me!” she cooed. “Maybe we can go out for a drink or something some time!” I assured her that I would, and she left to head home, waving and wiggling her fingers at me. I sighed. Some young surfer boys sitting at a table across the room rushed right over to me.
“Doood!” the shaggy-haired blond boy said. “How did you DO that? That girl was HAWT!” I shrugged and told them that some girls are more interested in grown ups than they are in man-boys. The surfer boys both gulped and then understandingly nodded their heads up and down like those bobble-toys available at Dodger Stadium.
Alas, I myself prefer Man Boys, as you know. And I am not remotely attracted to men who look Respectable, such as myself. It might be because I am aware of how tissue slight the shell of respectability truly is. In my case, it is about as thin as gold leaf atop a cheap tinsel toy.
It was just a few days ago that I found myself in West Hollywood, having my customary quiche and iced cappuccino at that silly Champagne restaurant next door to Rage. And as I was dining, I was amused to see a pair of cute young boys -- and these were truly just boys -- skipping down the street, accompanied by a guy in his mid 20s who was filming them with a video camera. I instantly recognized one of the boys as being the nominally famous young gay porn star Brent Corrigan, who was obviously out shooting B-roll for his latest film. The chap he was holding hands with, an elfin brunette boy with a pierced nose and baggy-as-hell blue jeans, was clearly his boink-du-jour. The only question was whether the two were filming the “clothed” scene before or after their sex session.
Frankly, I must confess that I was amused by how Brent Corrigan seemed, more than anything else, like a scale model of a smaller version of himself. He looked to me to be no more than three feet tall, with a big ole pumpkin head, orange skin, and a big, bowl-like hair do. It seemed to me he strongly resembled an oompa loompa, more than a porn star.
As he walked, Brent made some sort of a joke to the kid he was with, and the kid giggled and wriggled his ass. Brent patted the guy’s back, and then tentatively dropped the hand so he was groping the kid’s ass, hard. It was both strangely teenage-horny and weirdly jaded. But that’s what you’d expect when you see a 19 year old drunk porn star romping around the streets of West Hollywood.
Later on that same night, I found myself on line, and who should pop up on my chat screen but my old friend, the long lost Superstar Twink? I have told you about the Superstar Twink often enough, I think. He is a chap whom I have chatted with off and on for something like four years – and, if what he says is true, he is the most important person I am ever likely to know, I am sorry to say.
For years I tried to crack the mystery of his true identity. And for years I have been foiled at every turn. Other folks have tried to convince me that he is faking me. But I am not so sure. He has maintained his persona flawlessly for years and years – even as the career of the person he says he is has eroded into 20-something hackdom.
Tonight, he told me, he was feeling horny. And he wanted to jerk off! I suggested he uncork a nice bottle of lube and give himself over to pure pleasure. His reply was that he never used lube – he uses his own spit. I warned him about the danger of his receiving the dreaded Friction Burns, but he just scoffed.
“I think I am going to buy time with one of the boys on Flirt 4 Free!” he squeaked.
“Oh, which one?” I queried.
“Oh, I like a couple of the Latin boys there. I’m thinking of Zebadee and Bors,” he burbled. I instantly web-surfed right on over to Flirt 4 Free and took a peek at the two candidates for cybersex.
“OK, here I go, I’m taking Bors!” the Superstar Twink told me. And at that moment, Bors was whisked into a Private Chat with the Superstar Twink.
Now, dear reader, since I know for certain that you are all fine upstanding citizens of the Red States that our wonderful airplanes from LA to NY fly over, you will not be aware that Flirt 4 Free is this porn site where, when you whisk the porn models into private chat, they perform whatever jaded and perverted filth you want them to do. But you will also not be aware that there is a preview screen, which allows you to watch – at about one third speed – what it is the porn models are doing while they are in private conference with their cyber-johns. And so I was treated to the vision of watching the 19 year old brunette porn model performing for the Superstar Twink’s Caligulan whim. It was quite surreal, like watching one half of a couple having sex!
The porn model, a 19 year old urchin from the forests of Slovakia, tugged off his boxer briefs and spread his legs, vigorously masturbating his penis until it was huge. His mouth was wide open -- a gaping rictus of loud moans and squeals. And every so often he would lean forward and spit a huge spurt of spit on his enormous erection. After a few moments, the boy flipped over on his hands and knees, spreading his legs, so the Superstar Twink could clearly see his anus and his balls underneath them. This went on for quite some time until finally the porn boy could stand it no more and he flipped over on his back, moaned, and ejaculated a huge wad of cum all over his chest. The Superstar Twink briskly ended ended the private session, while the boy was wiping up his semen with his underoos.
“Dude,” I chatted to him. “If ever I doubted that you were who you say you were, I don’t any more. You just spent at least a hundred and seventy five bucks on that kid!”
“I’m going to smoke,” the Superstar Twink typed back. And that is how a REAL Man-Boy behaves!
