2006-05-18 - 5:07 p.m.
It’s odd but I have been rather afflicted with a sort of writer’s block this past week, and it has extended even to you, my most wondrous Big Blue Blog-a-Roo. Oh, I have been able to do the writing that is mostly associated with earning a living – I can churn out the little coverage reports of the various scripts I read. And I can even get away with a review or two.
But aside from that, when I settle down to do my own stuff, I am seized by this odd malaise, an ennui that hungers for distraction and which makes it impossible to focus on what I am trying to do. I suppose it might be a bit of the old depression: I mean, I sit down here, and I am seized with a general hopelessness. I had better get over that, I suppose. It’s not going to help me do anything.
Even now, as I sit here at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in Venice, I am conscious of the fact that I’d rather be doing something else. I have to go to the bathroom. My head hurts. I need more coffee. I’d rather watch an episode of DOCTOR WHO than write. Yes, I have decided that I must crank out a blog entry today, whatever else happens.
And yet -- all the things I wanted to tell you have vanished from my head. I have absolutely nothing to say. My usual fallbacks of conversation for when I am devoid of thought are not coming to my rescue. And I am simply not inclined to go through my usual set of tricks and songs and dances. Orate about the “issues of the day?” Who gives a rat’s ass? Talk about my own this and that – pfft. As if.
I think that part of it is that I have just gotten totally out of shape, literarily speaking. The words do not want to flow out of my head as easily and as breezily as I would like. I really must update more often! It’s disgusting. What kind of a blog is this? Have I become like one of those pig-like housewife dilettante blog writers who update, oh, once every couple of weeks, between diapering the kids and shopping at the boutique? Or, worse, have I devolved into one of those disgusting blogs whose untalented authors only write entries when they’re feeling blue, so they can write “Oh, I am sooooo depressed today. Boohoo hoo hoo!”
It’s quite remarkable. All I can suggest is that you, my wonderous Blog-a-licious Blog, must try to be understanding. This blog entry, particularly, shall be little more than a rough attempt to get back into the groove. Dismiss it for its content. I don’t expect it to be brilliant in any way. The object here is merely to get back into the habit of writing.
It has been a quiet and inconsequential week. I’ve worked – and I have to be grateful that there has been work, since it’s stopping me from hemmoraging money. But I have noticed a certain lack of stimulation. My mind is like an empty hole, devoid of thought or experience! Blah, blah, blah, I think.
Actually I have to say that I might be feeling a bit down simply because I just got through having the most astonishing sex session. Lord, that was amazing. Have you ever had sex that was so good, it left you feeling depressed afterwards? I am not talking about the disgust you feel when you have sex with someone, and he was kinda gross and you feel bad afterwards because you are aware you shouldn’t have had sex with such a beast and you are fairly ashamed of yourself. No, I am totally not talking about that.
Rather, what I am talking about is sex with someone who was so handsome – and who was so into you – and with whom you had such a fantastic, fabulous time, that it’s probable that you won’t have any sex quite as good for ever – or at least for, oh, a month or two. It is a good thing that I am gay, because I can honestly say that I only am allowed to have sex this good a few times a year.
On the other hand, if I was straight, this sex was so good, I would have proposed to him instantly just so I could have sex like this with him forever and a day. Since I am gay, it is only too likely that I shall never see this perfect sex partner ever again. And perhaps that is a good thing, because meeting this person again, and then having mediocre sex with him, would only ruin the memory of this, the perfect sex.
Oh he was so handsome. He was 24, with short brown hair, and a perfect, toned body, with a chest that was covered with hair, and a dancer’s ass that was narcotically soft and malleable to the touch. He wasn’t just handsome – he was heartbreakingly handsome. And, in spite of the fact that I am really an old ghoul with a hook nose, drooling jaws, and a Buddha-like bell curve belly, he seemed utterly into me. It was heartening.
I mean, here is this amazing-looking fellow – and it’s clear that, for all my own horniness, he was hornier for me than I was for him. Yes, my friends, he was a Daddy Lover. Thank God for them, I tell you. There would be no hope of any joy in my future if it were not for the Daddy Lovers. I tell you, given that most of the folks who go for older guys are doing so as a result of having been molested as kids, I have to offer my heartfelt thanks to the Pedophiles of the world.
At one moment, there we were, me lying on my back, and him gyrating on top of my cock. I didn’t penetrate him – but he was just sort of riding my dick between his mildly furry ass cheeks. And, good grief, his cock was both pink and porcelain hard, and my mere touch was enough to make it seep a steady stream of gooey precum. What could be nicer? God invented precum so we gay men would be able to tell how sincerely into sex our partners were.
I reached around and stroked that dripping shlong while I rimmed his hole. And how he moaned! You never quite know what is going to work with a guy, particularly one who is intent at not articulating what he enjoys. But rimming is an activity of advanced gay sex that is not as common as you’d expect, particularly in the young. There are two kinds of guys – the type who, when you tongue their ass, stop you and say, “Uhh, dude, that does NOTHING for me.”
And then there are those who, the moment you put tongue to anus, start howling and writhing and wailing, gasping with pleasure, making noise unlike any they’ve made up to that point. This boy was like the latter, thank heavens. It was a charming cum shot, as well – with his eyes closed, the young man straddled my cock, so it went right between his ass cheeks -- and he gasped and grunted, “Uhh, you want me to cum now? I’m gonna cum!” he murmured in his best porn star voice. And then the guyser of light white spooge hurtled fountain-like out of his hard pink dick, onto my chest and stomach. It was delightful!
OK, the sex itself was kind of standard – but the point is, the guy was so nice and likable. He was exceedingly well mannered and soft spoken, and it was clear he was really into the Daddy – uh, Older Brother – thing. He smiled, we snuggled and made out. We chatted for a bit, and I learned that he worked for the Gay and Lesbian Center on McCadden doing Activist Work, whatever that means. And then he was gone, as all boys are. But really – I have to admit that if I had been a bit younger, and a bit more handsome, he is the sort of fellow who would really ring my bell, again and again.
-jd-
Actually, the person I feel sorry for is my poor dear mother. She had this houseguest this past weekend, an extraordinarily beautiful and gifted British actress whom she had met through her Jane Austen chat room, which is to her what Gay.com is to me, I suppose, except without the hook ups.
This lovely British actress, who looked like Olivia Hussey as a girl, but had now aged into astriking, distinguished-looking figure on the line of Alice Krige or Imogen Stubbs, was coming to town to attend the premiere of her small Indie movie, which was going to have a screening at the Wilshire Screening Room on Wilshire and Robertson.
When she arrived, the lady was all gushy about how she was going to go to a real Hollywood screening room, which seemed impossibly glamorous to her. I didn’t have the courage to tell her that the Wilshire Screening Room is just a grotty little cinema that shares offices with a cancer radiation clinic next door. Anyway, this distinguished, elegant creature was coming to town also to appear at the Jane Austin Convention that was taking place at the nearby high school.
Mom was extremely uptight over the fact that she wanted everything to be just right for the lady’s visit. She bought bouquets of flowers and arranged them just so. Then she polished up the Italian bowls and set them right on the table. And then she filled the kitchen with scones and delicious preserves. She filled the bedside table with old copies of Trollop and Josehine Tay and whatnot. Everything was just perfect!
And then the horrendous fat family who live upstairs from them decided to replace the tiles in their bathroom. I happened to be over at my parents’ apartment to watch an episode of TOP CHEF when the workmen started to do their repairs at 8 in the morning. Oh, the hammering! And the sawing! And the jack hammering! There was no chance that anyone could sleep through all that – it was the sort of loud, unpredictable, and hateful noise that would literally shudder through any ear plugs and enter the brain, jiggling it about like an egg in a centrifuge. And then, just when you thought you could not stand the noise for a moment longer, there was the hugest, most loud, and hideous noise – a thunderous crash and a smash and a splat. For the entire bathroom ceiling had fallen in, dousing the guest bathroom in a filthy and muddy mix of concrete, metal pipes, roaches, and raw sewage. The English actress heard it all, and stepped into the bathroom, gaping in horror.
“Oh my dears,” she gasped, clutching the silver string of pearls dangling from her light cashmir sweater. “I suppose I shall be taking my showers at the local gym now!”
My mother, poor dear, was quite mortified – especially when the workmen didn’t even come to take a look at the mess for about two days. And when the English lady made plans to spend the very next night, and the remaining nights of the trip, at the house of an Italian movie producer who happens to live in LA, it really was no surprise.
The plumber, when he showed up on the following Monday, was a squat little Arab man in his 50s, grey haired, with a long, bushy mustache. I happened to be the fellow who had to let the plumber in, as everyone else was asleep.
“Ahhh!” the Arab plumber grunted, his voice rumbly and rheumy. “I haff been here before. Your father – I believe he is rabbi yes? A scholar!”
I told him that my dad was a scholar, yes, but not a rabbi.
“Ahhh!” said the Arab plumber. “But he isss a Jew! That I know! And me – I yam Palestinian!” He laughed and rubbed his belly. “Iss a good thing we are Americans! And I love American Jews for they are wonderful people who do not necessarily agree with the ATROCITIES being committed by ISRAEL! You can be JEWISH without being an EVIL Zionist!”
Because I did not wish to interfere with the timely repair of my parents’ damaged plumbing – and also because the Arab plumber and I were both Americans, which seemed to supersede any ethnic variances, I said little, and just opined that “it was a pity that there was so much anger in the world.” I kept quiet about the fact that I was so pro-Israeli the Palestinian would be within his rights to actually pull out a scimitar chop off my head.
“Ehh,” the Arab plumber said, “I remember that when I left Palestine for the last time, this HORRIBLE Jewish soldier frisked me from head to foot and searched EVERYTHING in my car, tearing it to pieces! I asked her, ‘why you need to do this? I am American Citizen! You have no right to stop me!’ And she said, “I could stop GOD himself if I wanted!” The Arab plumber shook his head. I showed him to the ruined ceiling and he went to work. He was actually a nice fellow, this Arab plumber – and it did in fact make one thing that the world is really more complex than it at first appears.
